


the best thing a girl can be (a beautiful little fool)

by gaysanatomy



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired by The Great Gatsby, Lena-centric, Slow Burn-ish, and the 1920's were snazzy, and you can tell, bc it's by favourite book, because she's literal sunshine, because she's sad and broody and rich, it's a great gatsby au, kara is daisy, lena is gatsby, no one dies I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-01-16 01:27:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18511135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysanatomy/pseuds/gaysanatomy
Summary: So, when the sun dips low of a Saturday, and the sky is painted in pastel pinks and brilliant baby blues, Lena throws open the gates.//orthe supercorp great gatsby au that no one asked for





	1. in his blue gardens

It is now in the nature of Lena Luthor to live alone. It is her way to spend her days walking the halls of her great mansion; for every soft step of her polished leather shoes to ring clear off the walls, because in silence they are desperate for any sound at all to echo back to her. She is certain she has never been in half of the rooms she walks past, pensive and ponderous. It's no matter, though; Lena is sure she knows what they look like. How could she not? When every room in this house, curated by her mother, looks the same: the same sleek oak panels chase into the floor under every door frame, the same dignified matte blue presents itself from each wall, the same crisp white sheets line her bed when she returns to it late each night. Everywhere she goes in her house reflects the rest exactly. She has seen one room, therefore she has seen them all. So she doesn't bother with doorways, just allows rooms left unseen to gather dust. Instead, Lena Luthor wanders the halls with head held high and hands folded neatly into the pockets of the trousers society declares _she_ shouldn't have. And there are a great many halls, enough for her to walk all day and all night, and still not find where she started.

However, it is also in Lena's nature to grow overwhelmed by loneliness. It creeps up on her slowly, usually not rearing its ugly head until after midday. Though, it can depend entirely on when she arrives upon the long stretch of hallway where her mother had the paintings hung. Meters and meters of oiled faces, each more sternly rigid than the last, stare down at her as she walks briskly past. Decades of Luthor family heritage seem to follow her with those inherited green eyes, piercing and accusatory. She often wonders if Lillian had known what she was doing when she gathered the paintings all along one stretch. Had she known it would feel like this? So terribly, gut-wrenchingly lonely, to pass beneath them. Had she known, that when Lena would pace the length of the hall, that the hands of her ancestors would shift from their place folded so demurely over their knees, and reach out around her throat to _suffocate_ her?

_Had she known?_

The question would plague Lena, twisting the knot in her chest tighter even than the loneliness, if only it was really a question at all. But, she knows her mother. Years with her in a house that there is all too much of in her own taught her that the woman raising her was —  _is —_  cruel, cold, and above all, intentional. If the paintings elicit such a response within Lena, it's because Lillian wanted them to. No doubt she had felt her vice-like control of her daughter slipping, and had needed a way to claw it back. Much as she’s loathe to admit it, Lena realises that Lillian has made very easy work of it. She almost feels her mothers overbearing presence more now than she did when they shared a roof. And, if Lillian wanted Lena to be lonely (maybe even lonely enough to abandon her foolish notion of independence and return home), she certainly is that. 

So, when the sun dips low of a Saturday, and the sky is painted in pastel pinks and brilliant baby blues, Lena throws open the gates. 

Her parties are a forty-eight hour affair. A riotous ruckus from dusk to dawn on the first day, and just the same on the next. They always begin with the orchestra; at the start, it was somewhat of an ordeal to get them all in through the door on time. Magnificent brass instruments sometimes had to be brought in one by one, their bearer red in the face and huffing as they struggled with the odd angles and narrow corners of the house. It was a wonder the band could still pick up such a lively tune, when the time came for music, with the breathless look of some of them mere moments before. Slowly, though, as playing for Lena's parties became a regular opportunity, everything began to move like a well-oiled machine. Drums were no longer wheeled in on ungainly contraptions, but rather gently rolled in on their sides. Those with larger instruments — trombones and tubas — learnt how to manoeuvre around tight corners; those with smaller instruments learnt that they could stroll in three abreast if only they held their cases out in front of them. Within a few short weeks, they were consistently ready to perform before the first crowds begin to trickle through the gates. 

Then, by the time word got out about Lena Luthor’s wild weekend extravaganzas, the band was always in full swing as the swell of people flooded through. The music is indeed beautiful, filling the room with its warmth, but it's for the people that Lena opens her gates. While they all know her name, and whisper it in with giggled conspiracies, not one among them could pick her out of the crowd. It's thrilling, to stand among such a throng, to be able to sip demurely at her scotch and hold herself comfortably without the confines of corset and skirts, to talk to a woman with a smile and not have the fear that someone would see and report it back to Lillian looming overhead. It’s a feeling she’s still growing accustomed to; the freedom of no one knowing who she is. 

In fact, Lena’s sure she’s never told anyone at her parties her name. Not for lack of wanting to; she’s just never been asked. People at parties have little need for names, she’s learnt. It hardly matters at all, with the sheer numbers, even if two people were to find themselves at the same party twice they surely would not see each other. Even those who arrive together often do not stay that way for long. Lena likes it that way. Not only does it allow her to maintain her anonymity, but the constant influx of new people to interact with quells her loneliness more than she feels talking to the same few week on week would. 

And it would feel wrong, to speak to only a small selection when each and every person at her parties is so fascinating. Even if there's nothing so interesting beneath, on the surface everyone who comes through her doors onto the sprawling dance floor is dazzling. It's the glitz and glamour of their time; an era of truly beautiful things. The men come dressed to the nines. Crisp suits, pressed to the hard lines of square shoulders and broad chests. Pinstripes seem to sway in the odd lights, more and more as the champagne begins to flow. Bolder men sport colours further across the spectrum than the classic black and white. Blues frequent the parties, though most are so dark that they come under the guise of black. Reds are fairly common; the fierce pigmentation found so often on the cars of very rich men. Greens are few and far between, but Lena sees them occasionally, and enjoys them when she does. Pinks and purples are the rarest of them all; Lena makes a point of approaching any brave enough to wear them. 

But it is the women who demand the attention of any wandering eye. They wear stunning silks of every hue; some sweep the floor with every step as floor-length gowns billow about their ankles, others find themselves freer in dance as tighter skirts hint at scandalous curves just below the knee. Bathed in light, even the palest shades light up in vibrant exultation. Often, extravagantly elegant headpieces sit prettily atop heads as they jounce in time with the music. Bright smiles mold almost every face, framed by hair cut sharply to the shape of the jaw. Even their faces seem something of a performance, heavily made up with thick black lines over eyes and careful red stains touched to lips. 

Yes, when the people are all this captivating, Lena is perfectly happy to only meet each of them once. On some nights, she's even content to meet no one at all. Sometimes it is enough simply to watch from an alcove, to look out at the writhing sea of colour, and to know that all she had to do was to open the door and they came in their hundreds. Some nights, that's enough. 

Tonight is most certainly  _not_ one of those nights. 

 

The events of this mild summer eve were set in motion during the previous weeks. One conversation, one  _word_ if Lena's to be precise, had set her heart to thundering in her chest. And, with each pounding thud against her ribs, she had hazily calculated exactly how to move forward. Every step from that moment, every breath, had its purpose: to carry her onwards, along a path with so little room for error it was like walking a tightrope. It was as her mother had always claimed,  _knowledge is power_. Only, this knowledge was manifesting it's power strangely. Instead of transferring it to Lena, allowing her to bend it to her will, it seemed to assert it over her. This time, any power the knowledge possessed surely went into the hold it had over her. Every waking hour, and often those while she slept too, was consumed with it. It seemed even to control her actions; when she slept, when she ate, what she wore and who she talked to.

Knowledge truly is power, and Lena was all too happy to surrender to it. 

It all began when a mud-flecked white car, piled high with boxes, trundled up the lane Lena's house shared with its uninhabited neighbour. Only, it soon became clear that the cosy counterpart would remain empty no longer, as the car pulled neatly into the driveway. Evidently, Lena was to have a neighbour. The idea was actually quite novel to her. Having only ever lived on estates that spanned, sprawling, hundreds of acres, no one had ever been close enough to be considered a true neighbour. Now, though, someone was close enough for Lena to pick out the individual features of her face as she shuttled back and forth to her car, unpacking. 

She was of average build, slight and tall. Her dark hair — cropped close to her jaw, almost choppy at the back — took on a copper quality where the sun touched it. There was a certain air of femininity in her face, but Lena could see in the angle of her eyes and strong set of her chin that there was nothing delicate about her. A warm sense of familiarity spread in Lena's chest when first she stepped out of her car, and appeared to be wearing a soft linen shirt and cuffed trousers. If she could identify with her so quickly, just on the basis of her dress, Lena felt sure they would get along. 

So, even before Lena had learnt her name, she intended to make, at the very least, an acquaintance of this woman. Several times before she discovered their starkly opposite schedules did Lena send a member of her household staff down to offer up an invitation of friendship, but her new neighbour proved elusive. She made the casual assumption that she was occupied with work, or social calls, or something of the like down in the city, and didn't press the issue. As always, she was content to let things simply play out. 

That is, until her butler returned from one such outing; this time more successful than before. 

"I have not managed to speak with her, Miss Luthor," he informed her somberly, "but I have happened upon some information. Nothing much of interest; just a name." 

Well, it was more than she had at present, so Lena eagerly implored him to tell her what he knew. Then, "Her name is Alex Danvers, miss." 

 _Danvers. Alex Danvers_. 

Surely, Lena reasoned, as her heart picked up a lively pace in her chest, it couldn't possibly be that same Alex Danvers. Fate would not be so teasing. Plenty of people bore the name Danvers. Though, far fewer women were called Alex. Alexandra, yes, but _Alex_. . . Then, as hope dared to dizzy her, she thought back to the few fleeting glances she had caught of the woman from her window. And, yes, she  _knew_ she had seemed familiar. Her hair was different now — shorter — and she had been shifting uncomfortably in a heavy skirt and jacket last time Lena had seen her, but  _by God!_ It was the same woman. 

Suddenly, Lena was no longer happy to simply allow events to unfold at their own leisurely pace. After all, she's waited long enough, and patience may well be a virtue, but over the years it has also proved painfully tedious. Finally, at long last, Lena was taking control, and steering fate into a future she actually wanted. After so many years, walking the halls with only her thoughts for company, deciding what to do next was simple. She would formally invite Alex to one of her parties. As soon as possible; Saturday was only a few days away, it would have to be then. It would be done properly this time, no more gentle attempts at introduction, no more wasted journeys no further than the front door and back. As firmly as was polite, Lena would have to insist upon Alex's attendance at her next gathering. 

So, early that Saturday, she sent her chauffeur down to deliver the fifth and final draft of her handwritten invitation. She watched him primly cross the lawn with it pressed between forefinger and thumb, and with every step nearer the door, the tendrils of anxiety twisted their grasp tighter. What if, for all her efforts, Alex didn't come? What if, after choosing and changing her words perfectly, Alex still chose to decline? Everything was riding on this, all of Lena's hopes, what she believed to be her last chance at happiness. There was no contingency for Alex not showing up; Lena had no alternate options, no Plan B.

_What if it doesn't work?_

 

All day, and into the evening, that question beset her with worry. But now, in amongst the crowds and still with no sign of Alex, Lena is eerily calm. Tonight, her hair is pulled back, slick against her scalp and out of the way. Unlike those nights when she wears it loose and flowing about her shoulders, when it obscures the corners of her vision and can see only what is right before her, tonight she can see it all. She can see  _them_ all. Just the same as every other weekend, there are hundreds — bordering on thousands — of people here. The proof of their numbers is in those Lena can see around her, bodies pressed flush against one another on the dance floor as the band delivers a jazz refrain. But, it's also in the air they share, the heat of it as it's recycled through a thousand lungs. And it's in the discordant sound of their voices as the many seem to become the one.

Alex is one among that many. With that knowledge, Lena convinces herself that the only reason she can't see her now is because searching for anyone specific in this crowd is like searching for a needle in a haystack. So, early on, she resolves to remain passive in her search. Alex will surely set about looking for her, prompted by her personal one-of-a-kind invite, and the needle would be so much easier to locate if it found its own way out of the haystack. Fate, Lena decides, has been steered quite enough already, and all it has to do now is follow the road she has paved for it. 

Making her way outside onto the lawn, where the crowds are always thinner and the music dimmer, Lena seats herself at an empty table. There is no drink in her hand tonight (with her nerves still frayed and raw from the day, she doesn't even want to risk getting tipsy) so she places her hands, joined by knitted fingers, atop the table instead. Folding one leg over the other, and leaning back into a comfortable curve, Lena settles in to a night of waiting. 

 

It seems to be hours later (though with the sun firmly set and the moon a mere sliver in the sky, Lena has no way of knowing) when Alex finally makes her entrance. For all her worrying that they would never happen upon each other, Lena finds herself so engrossed in conversation that she barely notices her neighbour and the woman with her sit down. Earlier in the evening, perhaps for the first hour or two that she sat waiting, she certainly couldn't have missed them. There is only one door, albeit a large and sweeping set of French windows, into this part of the garden from the house, and Lena had been watching it with an eagle eye. But, as is so often the case, something had demanded her attention elsewhere. A young girl, maybe two years her junior, had slid languidly into the seat beside her, struck up conversation with a tinkling laugh and the batting of her eyelids. And, well, Lena is nothing if not a gracious host. 

She does notice, though. The chair growls in protest as Alex drags it's wooden legs backwards across the paving stones, and Lena glances up briefly at the disturbance. A jolt of recognition sends a thrill through her in the seconds before she goes to turn back to her new acquaintance. Immediately, her back straightens, lifting her from a cultured slouch, and it's the most she can do to contain a squeak —  _oh! —_  of surprise. Blessedly, the girl beside her is still chattering away obliviously, so there is no awkward silence for Lena to fill. Honestly, she's not even sure she could. Her tongue is still shaping itself to the syllables of Alex's name, and a thousand thoughts are flickering in her mind — not one of them coherent. Lena is speechless. 

Suddenly, the girl is asking her a question, something about the party, and does she really throw one this big  _every weekend?_ It's the perfect opportunity for Lena to draw her gaze away from Alex (who hasn't even spared her a passing glance, and is still in the thrall of conversation with a woman Lena now recognizes as Maggie Sawyer —  _oh it's all happening too fast_ ) and gather her thoughts. "Yes." She pronounces it slowly, carefully, like she's practising. "Yes, every weekend," then, after a pause that assures her she can open her mouth without her heart leaping into her throat — "excuse me" — she turns to Alex. 

"Your face is familiar," Lena says. She doesn't risk waiting for Alex to notice her, by then her wits might have left her again. "Perhaps I know you from Midvale; I spent a summer there some years ago now." 

At long last, Alex turns to face her. As Lena had suspected, no flash of recognition shows on her face. "Why, yes! I grew up there," Alex's response is that of one stranger to another, confirming Lena's suspicions. _She does not know me_. Probably for the best, Lena muses; things in Midvale had not ended well that summer. "As you may recall, things are a lot quieter down there. In fact, this party may well be the first I've ever attended. Not usually my kind of thing. It's only that," she continues, "I live just next door." Alex pauses to gesticulate broadly, as if to present her house to them, though it can't be seen over Lena's towering hedges. "And the host, this Lena Luthor, sent over an invitation this morning. Though, I have to say I'm surprised to have neither seen nor heard from her all night. . ."

Lena allows for a pause, still slightly taken aback that Alex has no recollection of her _at all_. Then: "I'm Lena Luthor." 

"Oh!" A pink wash of embarrassment flares in Alex's cheeks, "Please, forgive me for not knowing you." 

There's worry, almost fear, in Alex's voice; her words trip over it as they fall gracelessly from her lips, stuttering. Though, it's hardly surprising, after all the things Alex will have heard about her this evening. In the past, people have, in their ignorance, spoken their speculations directly to Lena herself. So, she knows the kind of tales Alex will have been told. Things like: _she's up here hiding from the police, you know; apparently they've got something on her in connection with her brother's bootlegging._ Or,  _I heard she killed someone once._ Sometimes there would be whispers that  _she's crazy, I've heard; just like the rest of those Luthors._ The closest anyone ever came to the truth was to mutter that  _someone told me that her mother disowned her for doing something terrible; don't know what, though._

None of it is very plausible, and certainly, none of it's true; Lena's just going to have to be careful to dissuade Alex from paying any of it much heed.

With a wave of her hand, and a lazy grin, Lena shakes her head. "Think nothing of it; it's just that I thought you knew." She can see that Alex is still struggling to find her words, gaping almost like a fish in her flustered agitation. "No matter," Lena adds, hoping to ease her discomfort, "You know now." 

"Yes, well," Alex seems to give herself a shake, before she leans forward a little in her seat and offers Lena her hand over the table, "I'm Alex. . . Danvers, that is." 

Clasping her hand firmly, and giving what she hopes is a reassuring single shake, Lena smiles again. "I know," she states, unabashedly. Then, she releases Alex's hand, drawing her own back to smooth the edges of her waistcoat as she sits back. 

"How is it," Alex starts with a genial smirk, "That I know nothing of you, while you seem to know a great deal about me?" 

"Entirely my fault, I'm afraid," Lena responds, "I am not used to having neighbours and I seem to have gone about it all wrong. It is easily remedied, though. We shall simply have to see more of one another." 

"Certainly." Any qualms Alex started out with seem to have faded with the ease of conversation, and she is now sat comfortably with a relaxed arm thrown over the back of her chair. 

"In fact, I have just purchased a hydroplane — a very fine piece of machinery — and I have plans to try it out in the morning. Care to join me?" 

Lena is thrilled at how obviously her proposition has piqued Alex's interest; she had hoped it would. "Why, that does sound very fine! What time?" 

Almost giddy with quite how well events have played out (far better than she could ever have imagined), Lena leans forwards with a bright smile. "Whatever time suits you best." Then, not wishing in the least to push her luck any further, Lena smoothly slides her chair back and stands. "If you have need of anything, just ask," she directs towards Alex. She then turns her gaze to the woman sat to her left, "Miss Sawyer, would you mind coming with me? I should like to speak with you privately." 

Her eyes are alight with great surprise as she raises them to meet Lena's. "Me?"  she exclaims, even as she goes to stand. 

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble," Lena confirms, offering her arm for Maggie to take. 

"Well," she declares, cocking an eyebrow at Alex in her astonishment, "Good evening, Miss Danvers." 

With that, the two take their leave and are lost once more in the crowd.

It is much harder than Lena would have thought, to walk two abreast through such a swarm. With every odd angle they have to manoeuvre, and every tight gap they have to squeeze through,  Lena grows increasingly grateful for Maggie's close grip on her arm. Soon enough, though, they are through the worst of it, and making their way to the winding staircase that leads to her personal rooms. It's only as they begin to climb the stairs that the roiling in Lena's stomach picks up again, and her hands begin to quiver. What if Maggie could not so readily forget what she'd heard? What if the Luthor name was too much of a deterrent? What if Lena couldn't quiet the pounding in her ears, and ended up saying completely the wrong thing?

Things had been almost effortless with Alex; that would be all for nothing if she messed it up now.  

As the door clicks softly shut behind them, Lena's heart leaps up into her throat, and she has to bury her fisted hands in her pockets to conceal the trembling. Outside, the muffled sounds of the party only serve to remind her that she's not there anymore. No, instead, Lena's alone in a room with a woman who could drastically alter the course of her life. Once again, she finds herself with nothing to fall back on if this falls through, no one else to turn to. No Plan B. 

Slowly, she turns to face Maggie. There's a moment, in the silence, where they both just stare at each other. Knowingly. In fact, it's that knowing look in Maggie's eyes that worsens the anxious churning of Lena's stomach. Even with what little she knows, Maggie could ruin Lena. All she need do is whisper in the ear of one of Lillian's lackeys, and all that Lena has built here would sweep crashing out from beneath her feet. Fleetingly, Lena thinks she can hear her mother's voice in the ringing in her ears. Lillian's clipped, unfeeling monotone reciting  _knowledge is power, Lena_. 

Knowledge is power, and Lena has delivered it right into Maggie's hands. 

The thought alone is enough to start her spiralling, down and down, into the depths of hysteria. Wringing her hands does little to stay the tremours that seize them, and attempting to slow her breathing only draws her attention to quite how fast its gotten. Lena feels sure, suddenly, that this was all a terrible mistake. That it could only ever have ended like this. . . 

Until, Maggie offers up a small smile. The knowledge is still there, but it's handled gently in the understanding lilt of her eyes. Even before she speaks, Lena begins to grow calmer. When, at long last, she does, what Maggie says instantly banishes any concerns Lena has. This was never a mistake. This was the right thing to do. This, after all, is what Lena's been waiting for. . . 

"I take it you want to talk about Kara." 

 

 


	2. an absolute rose

Moving down from Midvale to West Egg, a few miles out of National City, is the bravest thing Alex Danvers has ever done. In the end, it took a great shove of adrenaline to get her out of the door to leave. Even after months of consideration — weeks of intricate planning — days of slotting her belongings into collapsible cardboard boxes — it had still been terrifying and terribly difficult to leave behind all that she had ever known. The five-mile radius that marked Midvale's borders was her comfort zone, and where she was headed would take her well and truly out of it.  So, in the end, an almighty adrenaline rush was the only thing that could have her see it through. It was also the thing that made it all so very exciting. 

With the wind tousling her hair, and a pair of thick-rimmed sunglasses shading her eyes from the bright glare off the wet road, it had all seemed somewhat of an adventure. Even if they were the same trees, lining the side of the road, as they had been in Midvale; they seemed greener now. Certainly, it had been the same sky up above as it was before, but as Alex threw her head back in bliss, she had noticed far fewer clouds. The breeze was different, too. Back in Midvale, some forty miles down the winding road now and fast retreating, the air had felt stagnant. Stifling and stale. Now though, it was fresher; crisper and cleaner as she drew it deeply in. Out there, Alex had finally been able to  _breathe_. 

Though, even before she had set out to leave, Alex had known that Midvale wasn't really the problem. It had still been the same as it always was; quiet, pleasant, quintessentially suburban. The same mayor still sat behind the same oak desk in the same bustling city hall, and the same brood of overly-involved old ladies still ran the town from behind the scenes. The same friendly family still lived in the same brick bungalow next door, and hosted the same community barbeque on the same day every summer. The same four walls had still greeted Alex when she woke up at exactly the same time —  _six o'clock, and not a moment later —_  every morning. Everything about Midvale was the same. 

It was Alex who had changed. Slowly, through years of annual summer barbeques and waking up at six on the dot, she had grown restless. It hadn't been enough, anymore, to live a simple life in a quaint little town that no one had ever heard of. And she refused to have her life limited by the two job opportunities presented to women in such a small community. If there was anything Alex definitely did  _not_ want to do with her life, it was be a midwife or shop assistant in the run-down haberdashery left of the grocers. So, she left. 

One day in Spring, Alex had kissed her mother's cheek farewell, loaded all of her belongings onto the backseat of her car in boxes, and driven away from Midvale with the intent of making something better for herself, somewhere. 

That somewhere ends up being a small house slotted between two far larger mansions, on the crest of an island called West Egg. It is here that Alex finds herself settling into summer. She has only been here, living overlooked in the shadow of her formidable neighbours, for a week or two, now — but, already she knows this was the right thing to do. Already, she can feel the rejuvenating effect that the change of scenery is having on her. And, living so close to the bustling city, she suddenly finds her life to be rife with opportunity. In fact, she's already found a job doing, what she thinks is very important, very  _secret_ work. 

Though, while Alex is glad to be away from everything she knows and has grown to resent, she is grateful for the one small piece of home that has found her here. In fact, she's positively overjoyed to have, some days ago now, discovered that living just over the water — on West Egg's more fashionable counterpart, East Egg — is her sister, Kara. In recent years, following Kara's marriage, Alex has not heard from her sister, except in sporadic postcards marking all the sensational distant lands she was visiting with her new husband. So, to answer the trilling phone one evening, and hear Kara's voice on the other end had been a welcome surprise indeed.

"Oh, Alex, it is _wonderful_ to hear your voice," she had gushed for what must have been the fifth or sixth time, some ten minutes into their conversation. "I have missed you terribly." 

"I've missed you, too, Kara—"

"Oh!" She exclaimed then, interrupting whatever it was Alex had been going to say. "You simply must come over for dinner!" 

Kara had then gone on to insist rather firmly when Alex had spluttered out some thinly veiled excuse. 

So, Alex finds herself making the short trip from West to East Egg one blustery Sunday evening. She has done her best to clean the mud flecks off her car, but she was never going to be able to get them all, and those she's missed show up obtusely against the shock of white beneath. As if to make up for that one slight slip in standards, Alex has gone to great lengths to ensure that every other aspect of her appearance is neat and tidy. Pushing at the pedals, her shoes have been polished within an inch of their life. Earlier, with a pleased grunt, she had noticed them glinting up at her with every step towards the car, reflecting the light of the sinking sun. Moving up her leg, her laundered navy slacks are freshly pressed. Alex is careful not to let them crease as she bounces her knee; a nervous tic. Her shirt and jacket are the same. Spotless and smooth. Finally, she's paid special attention to her hair. Starting by teasing out knots with a fine-tooth comb she didn't know she owned (and certainly has never used before), Alex finished her adjustments by slicking her hair back, running it through with wet fingers. 

There is, quite literally, not a hair out of place. 

When, at last, she arrives, Alex is glad for the time she took to clean herself up. She should surely have hated to show up here, to the veritable castle Kara now calls home, dressed as she normally is. Even as it is, she looks out of place. The speckled imperfections in the exterior of her own car are highlighted all the more by the sleek finish of the brand new sports car she has parked it next to. Suddenly, standing upon the gleaming plates of polished slate that pave the way up to the house, so pristine that she can see her own reflection in the stone, her shiny shoes seem somewhat lacklustre. Unwrinkled or not, her simple shirt-jacket-and-trousers ensemble would never have been enough for this place. 

The front of the house is all perfectly rectangular red brick; not a single corner of a single brick appears at all chipped or weather-beaten. Not even the languid twisting and turning of the vivid ivy that creeps up towards the roof and into the clouds interrupts the masonry. Alex follows the ivy's winding trail, up to the slanted roof, where three identical chimneys stand, towering like turrets. Further down the house, several sweeping sets of French windows flank the front porch, though in this low light they offer no insight into the home. Instead, they reflect a blinding whorl of brilliant light — golds and pinks and deep blues, all concentrically coiled around one another. 

Then, standing a few steps out from beneath the great awnings of the porch, with legs staunchly set apart and arms folded over his chest, there's Mon-El. Kara's husband. 

He's hardly changed at all, in the years it's been since the wedding. Mon-El is still the very picture of upper-class arrogance. It exudes out from his every feature. It's in his eyes; narrow and bearing the weight of his heavy brow, glossed over with that gleam of masculine superiority so often seen in men of his calibre. And it's in the hard squaring of his jaw — the fine press of his mouth.  It is everywhere in the stern set of his face. Alex feels, though, that the worst of it is in the manner of his dress. Certainly, she has never seen anything more arrogant than the way his tailored three-piece suit strains with the flexing of his arms as he folds them over his chest. 

But, Kara loves him, so Alex tries her utmost not to flinch when he greets her with a hearty slap on the back. "Alex, good to see you again, my dear," he declares gruffly. (She doesn't bother trying to conceal the grimace that shapes her lips at his frivolous use of endearments). 

"Uhh, yes," nervous fingers worry at her hair, "It has been quite some time." 

"What do you think of the house?" He asks, sweeping a broad hand out in front, and almost ignoring her entirely. "Quite something, isn't it?" 

"Well, yes. It is—"

"We'll go inside," Mon-El says abruptly. He's steering her with the hand he hasn't moved from her back since their greeting, and Alex quickens her step to get out in front of it. 

The house, unsurprisingly, continues to be regally extravagant inside as well as out. The halls Mon-El leads her through are flush with natural light from those grand French windows, and smaller windows are dressed with decadent silk curtains that pool on the floor like spun gold. In every doorway hangs a thick mahogany door, many with intricate patterns carved by obviously expert hands. Beyond the few open doors, Alex can see beautiful rooms. One is a library; the walls are hidden behind colossal shelves, each holding dozens of splendid leather bound books. Tucked away in a corner, with a colourful blanket thrown haphazardly over it, sits a well-worn armchair. Dressed only in cotton, that one article seems just as much out of place as Alex feels.

For the first time since her arrival, Alex smiles. She can see an awful lot of Kara in that room.

From there, they walk for only a few seconds more, before Mon-El turns briskly on his heel and on through a doorway. Alex follows him through, and instantly has the wind knocked out of her. With only an excited, wordless exclamation for a warning, two slight arms slip over her shoulder and under her arm, respectively. Swathes of golden hair tickle at her chin, teasing a smile from her lips. "Kara," she breathes happily, before drawing her sister impossibly closer. 

It's only when Mon-El coughs coarsely that the two break apart from their embrace, and Alex sees her sister for the first time in years. Much like Mon-El, nothing about Kara has changed. 

Alex doesn’t realise quite how glad she is of that until she finds that familiar vivacious lilt in the blue of Kara’s eyes. She’s not quite sure what she would have done if she didn’t recognise her sister. Blessedly, all the things that make Kara so undeniably _Kara_ are still there. Those eyes, her hair, that smile. The crinkle between her brows when she frowns, the warm cadence of her voice, even the way she stands bouncing on the balls of her feet when she’s excited. It’s all still there.

The spreading sense of comfort that’s taking root in Alex’s chest sends her back to their childhood, back to the bedroom they shared and the only memories in Midvale that made it hard to leave. Her heart feels fifteen again, and it’s as if they never missed a beat. 

"Oh, Alex," Kara whispers, breathless from the exhilaration of their reunion, "I have missed you something awful." 

Alex finds Kara's hand, lost in the pleated folds of her dress, and gives it a squeeze. "Well, I suppose I'll have to make a job of it now, to make sure that you'll have no cause to miss me again." 

"I should like that very much. . ." Then, as if coming out of a trance, Kara shakes her head and frowns. "Goodness, where are my manners? I'm simply all over the place today. Alex," she starts, stepping a little to the side so that another woman comes into view, "this is Margaret Sawyer." 

"Oh, I much prefer Maggie," she says as she offers Alex her hand to shake. 

The woman —  _Maggie —_  is perhaps a head shorter than Alex, but she commands the room in such a way that Alex is shocked she hadn't noticed her before. She stands with her feet shoulder-width apart, in a confident stance that seems to add inches to her stature. The sincere inflection of her eyes marks her as the no-nonsense type, but there's a kindness in them when she tilts her head to the side. Alex's respect for her only grows, as Maggie shakes her hand with a grip that's firm and assured. 

You can learn a lot about a person from their handshake, Alex has always thought. What she's learned from Maggie's is that she's not someone to be trifled with, and that she carries herself with intriguing conviction. Alex thinks she should like to learn more about this enigmatic Maggie Sawyer.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she says as Maggie releases her hand.

There's a teasing intonation in Maggie's voice when she responds, "I'm sure, the pleasure's all mine."

It's then that Mon-El, clearly growing restless with all the attention directed somewhere other than him, interjects. "I'm of the opinion that you moved down here to find work, Alex. What is it that you do?"

Alex, with no real way of telling him what it is that she does without a serious breach of the non-disclosure agreement she's signed, freezes. "Uhh," she finds herself mumbling, desperate for something to say. "Just a little bit of this and that." 

"Hmm," Mon-El intones. It's barely a single syllable, and it's hardly a word, but coming from his lips it sounds so incredibly patronising that Alex can hardly stand it. She longs to throw it back in his smug face, to spite him by telling him that actually, she's one of the brightest minds at an organisation that does some really very important work. Actually, what she does is of far greater value than all of his pitiful accomplishments combined. 

But, she can't. So, instead, she ducks her head and allows the angry flush in her cheeks to go disguised as embarrassment. 

Kara, noticing this, declares that "I daresay, dinner must be ready by now. Shouldn't we go on through and find our seats, darling?" Then, as Mon-El grumbles his consent and wanders out onto the veranda, she gently grasps Alex's elbow. "I'm ever so sorry about him. He can be such an awful  _man_ sometimes." 

Maggie, who has clearly refused to be seen following Mon-El out of the room too closely, adds, "He's always like that. Just ignore him; I do." 

Alex resolves to do just that as the four of them sit around a table piled high with food. She'll simply just ignore him. 

"What is it that drove you to move away, then, Alex?" Kara asks in the lull between their first and second course. 

"Nothing in particular," Alex begins, folding her hands together atop the table fastidiously, "It was only that — well, you remember Midvale — there really never was anything interesting happening. And it seemed very unlikely that anything interesting ever would."

"Hmm," Kara muses in agreement, "I trust Eliza is still in good health?" 

"Oh, yes. She misses you too, you know." 

There's a thoughtful pause, as if the unexpected sincerity of Alex's last statement hangs heavy in the air. Then, Kara's gaze falls beseechingly upon her husband. "We really should visit, Mon-El." 

Having long since lost interest in the evening’s proceedings, Mon-El merely waves a non-committal hand in his wife’s direction. The smoke from the cigar he holds pinched between two fingers trails lazily through the air.  

Another pause. This time one of solemn resignation for Kara, and uncomfortable sympathy for Maggie and Alex. For every second of silence, and every time Kara uneasily tucks and untucks her hair from behind her pinked ear, Alex can’t help but feel more and more that Maggie’s advice was wasted on her. If anyone could benefit from being told to _just ignore him_ , it’s Kara. 

Each of them allows another few seconds to lapse by, hoping that someone else will be the first to speak, before Maggie finally shoulders the burden. “So, you live in West Egg?” 

“Y-yes,” Alex stutters, fumbling to match Maggie’s gaze before Kara can notice she’s been staring. Then, more composed now, she continues. “Yes, for a few weeks now. Though, I don’t know a single person there.” 

Taken aback, Maggie eyes her curiously. “You must know Lena.” 

“Lena?” Kara says, suddenly. “What Lena?” 

“Lena Luthor,” then, to Alex, “Everyone knows Lena Luthor.” 

Upon the utterance of the name, Kara’s eyes go wide. A breathy, hiccuping gasp slips, unbidden, last her lips. Though she tries to conceal it with a delicate cough, and succeeds in hiding it from Mon-El, Alex and Maggie both notice. 

“See?” Maggie says, “Kara knows her.” 

“What! No I don’t,” Kara retorts, spluttering indignantly, cheeks flaring. “Just. . . heard of her, is all. The Luthors, they’re — well, they’re infamous in New York. I simply heard talk of this Lena Luthor when we were there last winter. Don’t you remember, darling?” 

Mon-El grunts. Ambiguous. Uninterested. 

“Oh, okay,” Maggie concedes, throwing an elbow over the back of her chair. “Well, almost everyone does, anyway.” 

From then on, the evening dwindles into terse and trivial snippets of conversation. Alex fills Kara in on years missed in Midvale, and Kara punctuates Maggie’s anecdotes with a sentence or two about the places on the postcards she used to send. It’s nice enough. And Alex is grateful for any time she gets to spend with her sister, after so long apart. It’s just that she can’t help feeling that Kara’s not really there. Ever since Maggie mentioned that woman — Lena Luthor — she’s been distant. Dazed.  

That evening leaves Alex with a sour taste in the back of her throat. That, and the feeling that somewhere, somehow, she’s heard that name before. _Lena Luthor_. It strikes up an infuriating sense of familiarity, just out of reach. Alex can’t help but feel that, though she doesn’t know her now, she’s met this woman. 

But, for the life of her, she can’t think _why_. 

 

She doesn't hear from anyone up at the house for some weeks. When, at last, the phone does ring, Alex feels a pang of disappointment to hear Mon-El's voice at the other end, not Kara’s. The gruff, arrogant infliction with which he speaks is hardly improved by the crackle and spit of the telephone. 

"Alex," he drawls, finally speaking after a lengthy silence, like it's an afterthought. "How would you feel about joining me for a spot of lunch today, down in National City?" 

The feeling Alex has about joining Mon-El for lunch is one of strong aversion. Even with what little food she has in the house, a quiet meal at home as she flicks through a book sounds far more inviting than whatever gallivanting Mon-El might have planned. But, once again, a sense of obligation to Kara drives her to accept. "Yes; that sounds pleasant. I should like that very much." 

So, she finds herself fidgeting with the hem of her jacket on a near-vacant midday train, on her way for lunch with Mon-El in National City. Or, at least, that's where she thought they were heading. Mon-El proves quite the contrary to be the case, when he stands abruptly as the train stops miles out from the city, grips her elbow, and declares that "We're getting off here. I want you to meet my girl." 

The _girl_ he refers to is, no doubt, his mistress. Alex has heard rumours of Mon-El’s affair, from friends passing through Midvale in the months before she left. And Maggie had whispered the scandal to her at dinner when he left the table to take a call. Still, it’s a shock to hear it from the man himself. A spike of anger flares in Alex’s cheeks; he had owned up to having a mistress, but it was by no way an admission of guilt. Surely, he knows that her allegiance lies, first and foremost, with Kara. Yet, he still has the audacity to announce his affair like it’s something he’s proud of.

Even stranger, he wants Alex to meet the woman he’s cheating on her sister with. 

Evidently, he thinks it will bring about some sort of friendly comradery between them. Like he’s opening a door into some sort of elitist gentleman’s club only a few are privy to. As if airing his dirty laundry for Alex’s scrutiny will somehow make her like him more. 

Well, she hasn’t even met _his girl_ yet, but so far all she’s done is make Alex _loathe_ him more. 

“I think you’ll like her, Alex. She’s pretty lively,” Mon-El offers up, after several minutes of walking in silence. “Here we are.” 

A bell chime sounds as he pushes open the door to a little florist, tucked away between dreary boarded-up shop fronts. Before she follows him in, Alex glances up to read the letters printed above the door in peeling paint.  _Imra's Finest Flowers._ Then, she ducks her head and walks in beneath the low frame. 

Inside, the air is thick and clogged with the potently sweet scent of a hundred different flowers. The shelves are lined with them. The menagerie of clashing colours is just as much an affront to Alex’s eyes as the smell is to her nose. The contents of one vase, in particular, catches Alex’s eye. All at once, her heart sinks with sorrow and her stomach churns with acrid rage. Those conical yellow ones, just left of the roses and below the jasmines — they’re the very same flowers Kara had been so pleased with at dinner when Alex saw her last. A thoughtful gift from her charming husband.

With a scoff of cynicism, Alex wonders if he at least gets a discount, for sleeping with the shopkeep.  

When Mon-El comes back in through an almost hidden door behind the counter, Alex realises that she’d been so distracted by the absurdity of it all — him bringing her here — that she hadn’t even noticed him leave. He’s trailing a woman behind him, pulling her through with their linked hands. For a moment, Alex finds herself too blinded by indignation to look at her. 

“Alex, this,” Mon-El announces, “is Imra.” 

Finally, Alex looks up. To her unfathomable frustration, Mon-El’s mistress is indeed very beautiful. Her skin is awash with jovial youth, and her doe’s eyes are framed with long, dark lashes. The high cut of her cheekbones and sharp line of her jaw look enough to land her a place on the cover of one of those glossy magazines. Her full lips curl into a small, soft smile and the luxurious tresses of her hair fall out from behind her ear to cover her face as she presses it to Mon-El’s shoulder. 

Imra’s lovely. Every fibre of Alex’s being screams out to hate her. Hate, hate, _hate_ her for what she’s doing to Kara. 

Her mouth is bone-dry when she goes to speak; the words taste like sawdust on her tongue. “Uhh, yes. Very nice to meet you.” 

“Fantastic!” Mon-El booms, clapping Alex on the back in that jarring way he has. “Now,” he says with a grin, “we can go to lunch.”

 

When Alex returns home in the late afternoon, her head is pounding. It had been utterly exhausting, to sit across from her sister’s husband and the woman to whom he is clearly devoted, and have to make civil conversation. For every question she had asked Imra about her business or her life, she had two more about how she could possibly sleep at night and _where in the hell are her morals?_ Andfor every one of his own jokes Mon-El laughed at, Alex ached to knock the smile from his lips. Restraining her more primal, knee-jerk reactions has well and truly drained her. 

When she arrives back home, there are only two things she can think to do with herself, after the afternoon she’s had. Those are: one, hit something, and two, sleep. And, well, she’s far too tired to be hitting anything. So, despite the unconventionally early hour, Alex finds herself settling in for a fitful night’s sleep. 

When she wakes the next morning — her mood not much improved — there’s an envelope waiting on her doorstep. Inside, she finds, written in a sweeping serif hand on bespoke monogrammed paper, an invitation. 

Apparently, Lena Luthor is ever so sorry for not making a better show of introducing herself before, but she would be greatly pleased, and _honoured,_ should Alex choose to attend her party tonight. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't hate imra i swear!
> 
> i actually like her a lot she's an absolute sweetheart. but, hey, mon-el needed a mistress and she was the obvious choice. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed despite my dodgy writing! :)


	3. that was 1917

Three weeks after their first meeting at the party, Lena makes good on her promise to see more of Alex.

One Sunday, late in July, she rolls up to Alex's driveway in her sleek beauty of a car and announces her arrival with a tuneful blast of the horn. When Alex opens the door to greet her, Lena smiles and pushes her sunglasses up from the bridge of her nose onto the top of her head through waves of luxurious raven hair. "Good afternoon, Alex. I was just heading into town for lunch, and thought I might come and see if you have any interest in joining me." 

"Certainly, I think I should." Alex accepts very readily, her decision coloured far more than she'll admit by the opportunity it presents to ride in that magnificent car. She runs her finger idly along the ridges of the hood; the dark shade of maroon swells with heat in the fierce summer sun. Formed in the curving bulges of the headlamps along with the exhaust grill, and the position of the lettered logo — a mark of quite how much the vehicle must have cost — is an almost imposing face. The windscreen sweeps back in a pleasing arc, impeccably clean and encased in a border of burnished metal. When Alex tugs gently at the handle, the passenger side door swings open with all the grace and smooth sophistication of a swan spreading its wings for flight. She's almost dazed by it all, when at last she slides onto the leather upholstery of her seat. 

"Quite something, isn't she?" Lena muses as the car roars to life and they set off down the road. 

Alex nods, leaning over inconspicuously to admire all the dials and flashing lights on the dashboard. "Hmm, oh yes." 

That's the last thing spoken between them for a while. Alex's quiet agreement ushers in a silence of the sort that makes one squirm, but isn't quite uncomfortable enough to warrant striking up any conversation. For, perhaps, fifteen minutes the two of them make themselves content to simply watch the world go by. Lena trains her eye on the road, intent on not seeming an irresponsible driver should Alex catch her looking up at her. She tries to distract herself with the thrum of the engine, with the feel of working the pedals, and with the low crooning drifting from the radio in dissonant beats. 

Finally, she gives in and sneaks a sideways glance over at Alex. Suddenly, with the briefest moment of eye-contact, the silence goes from not quite uncomfortable enough to warrant striking up any conversation, to  _definitely_ uncomfortable enough to warrant striking up conversation.

"So, Alex," Lena starts, arching an eyebrow at the road in an attempt to feign nonchalance, "what's your opinion of me?" 

"Uhh—"

"It's only that, well," before Alex can form a response, Lena hurries out with the rest of her sentence, "I know what you'll have heard at the parties." Another stolen glimpse of Alex's expression — eyes wide with worry, mouth agape and clearly floundering for anything to say at all — has Lena rushing to reassure her. "Oh, no, don't worry. I'm not bothered by it. I only mentioned it to ensure you know that none of it is true." 

"Ah, okay," Alex finally breathes, "That's all right then."

Lena allows for another beat of silence before her finger begins to tap fretfully at the wheel. "I suppose I best tell you the truth, then. If I don't want you to go on believing those stories. That's all they really are, you know. Stories. . ."

"Oh, no, it's all right," Alex says hurriedly, not at all wishing to force a confession of any sort from her neighbour. "You don't have to tell me."

"But I want to," Lena assures her softly. Then, not wishing to leave any room in the conversation for silence to slip back in, she begins. "I'm here to get away from my mother. Well, Lillian Luthor, that is. . . I was adopted by the Luthors' after my mother died. I was only four at the time, so I have no real memory of her. They took me in, but Lillian was always careful to make the distinction between me and Lex. He's her son, and I was never really quite good enough to be her daughter."

"That's terrible!" Alex exclaims. Suddenly, she feels very guilty for ever believing that Lena was in league with her family and whatever nefarious schemes they had in the works. 

"Oh, I shouldn't complain. After all," Lena flashes a sardonic smile, "she does fund my _lavish_ lifestyle." 

Despite not knowing her very well, Alex is almost sure that Lena's hiding something deeply sad behind the quip on her tongue and the green of her eyes. It's only there fleetingly, though, in the seconds before she turns back to face the road. "Lena. . ."

"Anyway," the timbre of her voice shifts to something lighter, "My mother — Lillian — was always content to give me some semblance of freedom. Once she was satisfied I had learned how not to disgrace the family name. She had that ingrained in me by the time I was six. Don't go out unchaperoned; don't talk back to any of the men my father was doing business with; don't drink or smoke in public. Things like that. Well, as long as I didn't  _show us up_ (as she would put it), I was free to do as I pleased. And I did. I spent my time drifting from place to place, unchaperoned — just to spite her for not caring enough to notice. 

"I'd stay someplace for a week or two, drinking and smoking, then move on to the next. That's how I ended up in Midvale — oh, it must be near on five years now. . ." Lena trails off, pausing to stare wistfully at the road. A heavy breath whistles through her teeth as she sighs.  _Has it really been that long?_ "Five years. . ." Suddenly, she shakes it off with a roll of her shoulders, "Well, that was how I lived, for years. Then, it all changed. I did something — nothing like what they say at the parties. I didn't kill anyone or set off a bomb or smuggle alcohol for Lex or whatever other tales they tell. It wasn't even really anything terrible. I just, well, I did something, and Lillian found out. 

"At first, she was so awfully angry. For the first time in my life, I saw her lose control. Really, truly,  _lose control_. She raged. She screamed and yelled and threw things. But, then, the next day she came to me, as cool and collected as always, and told me to pack my things. You see, as soon as she'd been told what had happened, she'd come directly down from the estate and arrived in the hotel suite I was staying in. So, when she told me to gather my things, I thought she meant to immediately cut me off. And I was using family money to pay for the hotel. Strangely, that didn't scare me. I wasn't afraid to be disowned. I had a rather large sum of money left over to me from when my father died (he was always rather more fond of me than Lillian), and the Luthor name is something I'd still be glad to see the back of. 

"But, that's not what she did. I packed my things, and had them brought down to the lobby. While I waited for her there, I felt a sort of proud defiance. If she was going to strip me of all I had over such a trivial matter, one action she disagreed with, then she was welcome to. I wanted — I still want — nothing to do with her. So, when she approached me in that lobby I held my head high, and prepared to leave that way too. But, she simply said  _get in the car, Lena. I'm taking you home._ " 

Alex is listening, enraptured. And, while she doesn't want to pry, she can't help but wish Lena wasn't being so tight-lipped about what exactly it was she'd done. 

"After that," Lena continues, brows knitted in a pensive frown and eyes fixed upon the road, "she was much more controlling. I was forced to return to our family home and play the perfect daughter. I rarely left the house, and when I did it was only to keep up appearances at dinner parties and galas and such. I played my part, though. I laughed when those arrogant bastards made their offensive jokes, and I stayed silent when Lillian wasn't in the room. Eventually, she let me out on good behaviour," Lena chuckles morosely, moving restlessly in her seat like there's a weight on her chest she can't quite shift. "So I found myself a nice big house, Lillian sent her men in to decorate it, put the deed to it in her name, and here we are." 

With her story brought to its end, her account of events caught up to the present, Lena loosens her grip on the wheel and lets her chest deflate with a sigh. She hadn't realised quite how much it all still weighs on her. Even with what little she's actually told Alex, finally speaking it aloud has dredged up feelings she hadn't known were there. In her chest, a bitter cocktail of emotions starts to trickle into her lungs. Each sharp breath she draws in seems to catch there. And her every exhalation feels sluggish, like her chest is slowly filling with treacle. She's sure she never felt it so much at the time; the injustice of what Lillian was doing. Up from her collar, an angry blush heats her neck and face. For the first time in years, Lena feels her teeth begin to worry at the inside of her mouth.

All the while, Alex still hasn't said a word. 

The silence Lena has been so hoping to avoid seeps back into the air, rising like smoke from the floor. This time it fills her throat with a thick cloying scent, like it's something rotten. She wishes Alex would just  _say something_. Lena's certainly done her fair share of that in the last twenty minutes. 

Finally, when she feels just about ready to succumb to the silence, Alex clears her throat to speak. "Lena, I'm so sorry. I- I don't know what to say. What your mother did. . ."

Lena shuffles awkwardly in the driver's seat. In contrast with Alex's uncomfortable condolences, the silence doesn't seem so bad after all. "Oh, I don't think that much of it. And it was all a long time ago now, anyway." Lena doesn't really consider the eighteen months it's been since she last saw her mother a  _long time_ , but she feels desperately a need to distance herself from it. Maybe, she thinks, maybe if she says it's been a long time, it'll feel like that's true. 

"Regardless of how long it's been, you're still—" 

As Lena twists the key in the ignition, Alex cuts off; almost as if it fueled her, and not the engine. "We're here," Lena announces curtly, glad for an easy way out of a conversation that has become far too weighted. 

"Ah," Alex replies, "Okay." 

Lena is already in and talking to a waiter by the time Alex has opened her door. 

 

The restaurant is all chandeliers at noon and wait staff in designer uniforms; Alex is mortified. She subconsciously scolds herself for getting distracted by Lena’s car before she could properly think about the implications of her offer. Lena is rich. You could fit fifty of Alex’s house on her front lawn alone. Lunch with her was never going to mean anything less than caviar and vintage wine. Two things Alex definitely can’t afford. 

She doesn’t belong here. That much is made abundantly clear when the young man on the door asks if _madame_ has a coat he could take for her, without even looking up to see if she’s wearing one. Everything about this place — the rich feel of the carpets, the gold inlay on the door handle and the simpering string quartet in the corner — compels her to find an escape, and quick. But, Lena’s already sat down and waving her over from the table, where a man sits to her left. And Alex can hardly disappear after how she’s just confided in her. 

With a deep breath, and the knowledge that before the day is done she’ll need much deeper pockets, Alex joins Lena at the table. 

“Alex!” Lena says, the remnants of a laugh still on her tongue when she speaks. With one hand she gestures for Alex to sit, and with the other she presents the man sat beside her. “This is Jack Spheer. An old friend.” 

She watches Alex stand, flustered as she struggles to hold the napkin she was draping over her knees in one hand and offer the other for Jack to shake. The two utter a mutual “pleased to meet you” and retreat to their seats. As Alex continues to fuss with her napkin, twisting and pinching the corner between her fingers, Lena smiles kindly at her. “Order whatever you want,” she instructs them both, “lunch is on me.” It was inconsiderate to bring Alex here, she now realises. When she has so much, it’s easy to forget that not everyone has access to the same fortunes. Though, as Alex drops her stoic facade with a huff of relief and reaches for a menu, Lena thinks she might just have made up for her ignorance.

”So,” Alex presses her menu flat against the table, visibly more relaxed, “how do you two know each other?” 

Jack grins, and for a moment Lena’s worried about what he might say. “Lena and I went to college together, back in England. Oxford, class of 1915.” 

Alex’s eyes bloom with surprise, and Lena feels a small swell of pride when she turns to her, gaping. “Oxford? Really, you never told me you went to _Oxford!_ ” 

“Oh, yes,” Jack confirms with exaggerated sincerity, “She’s quite the genius.” 

“Stop it,” Lena says, suddenly abashed. Then to Alex, “I only really got accepted because I’m a Luthor. Lillian’s reputation precedes her, even overseas.” 

“Now, you stop it,” Jack declares vehemently, “She always says that. As if Lillian could secure your place at top of every class with simply her name and a stern glare. Even money can’t do that. No, that was all Lena.” 

Lena ducks her head to hide a shy smile. It’s not often she finds herself embarrassed, but where she comes from praise is a rarity. She’s still not used to it. “Hmm, well, when you put it like that. . .” she shoots Jack an impish, appreciative glance. 

Meanwhile, Alex is still in a wide-eyed state of shock. From the sob-story in the car to now, the revelations of grandeur; Lena Luthor is proving to be quite the enigma. 

“What was it you studied?” Alex inquires, absolutely fascinated. 

“Advanced physics and engineering.” 

The gasp her response elicits from Alex makes her smile. She is something of an anomaly. For a woman to go to college at all, let alone one so prestigious as Oxford, is shocking enough. But for a woman to study engineering? It's unheard of. Though, for all her pride, there is still a nagging voice in the back of her head that tells Lena she never would have made it if not for her name. She’s a Luthor; that’s all there is to it. 

“That’s _incredible_ ,” Alex breathes. “And you were at the top of every class? Whew,” she gives a whistle, brows raised in awe. 

“Yes, well, those boys had it coming. Having a woman in the class isn’t quite so funny when she’s showing you up, evidently.” Lena leans back in her chair, smoothing her trousers over her knee and smiling with grim satisfaction. The identical look on all those faces when their professor declared her to be his best student — most apt, most logical, most _intelligent_ — is something she’ll remember until the day she dies. 

“Hmm,” Jack muses, “Nick always was a nasty piece of work.” 

As if suddenly reminded of something, Lena straightens in her chair and turns to Alex intently. “I believe you are having tea with Miss Sawyer later today, aren’t you, Alex?” 

“Why, yes. I am,” Alex responds, surprised by the sudden change in subject. “Why do you ask?” 

Lena’s fingers work the buttons of her blazer absentmindedly, “Oh, it’s just that I’ve asked her to tell you some things. I’m sorry to not tell you myself. I would, only I feel it’ll be better from her.” There’s more she’s going to say, more vague explanations, but before Lena can put them to words, she’s interrupted. 

"Alex? I'm surprised to see you here." 

All three of them at the table turn to look at whomever it is speaking. With easy elegance, Lena slowly strains her neck to gaze over the back of her chair. Alex does the same, albeit with a little less sophistication. She, too, is surprised when she finds herself looking at none other than Mon-El. She shouldn't be, though, she supposes. This is the kind of establishment frequented by the upper class, after all. And, like Lena, Mon-El is rich. Though, he always seems to make much easier work of flaunting it. While Lena carries her elevated status with a quiet grace and respect for those society deems beneath her, Mon-El makes no such effort. He's exactly the kind of person to drive at double the speed limit just to bypass people in cars that aren't capable of doing the same. Or, be wantonly disrespectful of authority because he knows any claims brought against him will simply _go away_ , if only he throws enough money at them. 

"Mon-El?" She manages after a beat. "Uhh, yes. I'm just out for lunch with my neighbour." His gaze falls on Lena, eyeing her critically with narrowing brows. In response, she fixes him with an equally hard stare and a courteous nod. Lena doesn't want to be overtly rude to any one of Alex's friends, but she also needs this Mon-El to know it'll take a lot more than a look to make her blanch. "Lena, this is Mon-El," Alex introduces him with a slight inclination of her head. "And, ah, Mon-El. This is Lena Luthor; she lives in the rather large house next to mine." 

"Hmm," Mon-El intones, still studying Lena like he doesn't quite believe her. "It's nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Luthor." 

"Likewise," Lena responds curtly. She's pleased to be the first to break their wary eye-contact, letting her line of sight wander listlessly to inspect her fingernails. It'll be good for this man, she thinks, to get the impression that a woman is completely uninterested in him. In fact, Lena's feeling really quite confident about her role in this situation — seizing control with her indifference while Mon-El simmers with belligerence — until Alex speaks again. 

"So, is Kara with you?" 

Then, it dawns on her.  _Oh._ He's  _that_ Mon-El. Kara's husband Mon-El. Suddenly, the suggestion that Kara might be here with him, in this very room, has Lena losing any and all sense of the control she had mere moments before. Her heart leaps into her throat, and blood rushes into her ears, pounding. It’s all so loud that, even she had stuck around long enough for Imra to appear at his side, Lena might not have been able to hear Mon-El say “ah, no.” 

As it is, she’s happy to be out of there as quickly as possible. 

 

Hours later, and Lena still hasn’t managed to quell the roiling in her stomach, nor stay the squeezing of her chest. She doesn’t know why she thought running away would improve the situation, but in the moment the prospect of seeing Kara for the first time in years, without extensive planning beforehand, had terrified her. So much so that her basic primal instinct for fight or flight had taken over her faculties. And, like a coward, she had taken wing and disappeared from that which frightens her most. 

She checks her watch. Five forty-five. Alex will no doubt have met Maggie for dinner by now. There’s another thing that frightens Lena. How Alex will react to the things Maggie’s been asked to tell her, she has no way of knowing. The very same information had driven Lillian to make Lena a prisoner in her own home for near on four years. While Alex has shown no signs of opposing anything so greatly as to have such a visceral reaction, it could all still go horribly wrong. Though, Maggie had responded with support and the promise of her help. And a generation of archaic prejudice separates Alex from her mother; Lena thinks there may be hope here yet.

But, it’s not just that. Something else has Lena heart stricken with guilt in her chest. What will be revealed over the course of that meal is also very personal. It was never meant to leave the covenant of the two that experienced it. After all, it’s only half Lena’s story to tell. And now, to have the knowledge of what happened extended to yet another person, it feels wrong. 

The events in Midvale during the summer of 1917 should belong to her and Kara. Her and Kara alone. 

 

_The seven months Lena spends in Midvale is the longest she's stayed in any one place before moving on for years. And she would have stayed forever if it meant she could be with Kara._

_They meet during her first week in the sleepy seaside town. The sun is hidden behind a thick wall of ominous cloud, and an uncommon chill has settled in the air. So, like the sun, everyone has retreated — back to their houses, content to leave the beach for another day. Not Lena, though. These cooler climes make for an ideal day out, for two reasons. The first is that prolonged exposure to the sun burns her alabaster skin, anyway, so she certainly won't miss it. The second, is that she'll have the entire stretch of coast to herself._

_Or, at least, it starts off that way. When she first arrives, book in hand and with a shawl slung over her shoulders, the beach is as she expected. Desolate. Long gone is the thrum of activity brought on by the sun; no children shuttle back and forth from the sea to their parents — laughing all the while, and no corresponding parents yell out at them to_ be careful!  _Only the occasional guttural grunt from a cormorant disturbs the silence. It’s perfect._

_Lena smiles privately, a sloping upward inclination of her lips, meant only for her. Tugging the shawl closer around her shoulders, surprised by a sudden and bitter wind, Lena starts down the beach at an amble. She’s left her shoes on a grassy patch further up; the sand is delightfully soft beneath her bare feet. When she decides upon a place to sit, Lena allows herself a moment to curl her toes into the sand and wriggle them about — a childish indulgence. But, it makes her smile. Then, she lowers herself to the ground and opens her well-worn book on the first page._

_For a while, Lena stays like that. Her crossed legs are folded beneath her, and her shoulders and back are hunched over her book, causing her to pitch forwards ever so slightly. Every few minutes the fraying pages of her book will rustle as she turns them, but aside from that, the silence is maintained. In fact, it is perhaps a little too well maintained. Lena grows so used to the utter quiet of the place, that she lulls into a state of vulnerability. Even the slightest noise could take her unawares. . ._

_”Hello.”_

_Lena yelps. It’s such a surprise that even a voice so soft has her jumping out of her skin. Heart thundering against the palm she’s laid over her chest, she turns around glaring. “Who the hell are you?”_

_“Oh!” Instantly, Lena regrets being so brusque — speaking so sharply. The woman in front of her flushes with embarrassment, but the pretty pinking of her cheeks only serves to make her more beautiful. She busies her shaking hands with the golden tresses of her hair, and her eyes appear a shocking shade of blue as they turn to the ground in shame. The soft fullness of her lips struggles to find the right shapes as she goes to speak, stammering. “I am terribly sorry for surprising you like that.”_

_”No,” Lena wedges her thumb between the pages of her book to mark her place as she closes it. She looks up at the woman earnestly, “No, I’m sorry. I just thought I was alone, is all.”_

_“Ah, well,” delicate fingers clumsily fold a length of hair behind her ear, “uhh, I’ll leave you be, then.” She gestures up in the direction of the village to illustrate her point. “Sorry again for bothering you.”_

_“Wait!” Lena calls out as she starts back up the beach. “You, ah,” she finds herself fumbling her words as a pair of piercing blue eyes turn on her, “you could stay. If you’d like,” she finishes weakly. Then, when the woman breaks out a bright smile and Lena’s heart clatters to a standstill, she adds, “I just mean that, well, there’s plenty of room for the two of us.”_

_Despite the suggestion that they occupy separate parts of the beach, the woman skips jovially back towards Lena, and drops down to sit beside her. A flurry of sand kicks up into the air upon her unceremonious impact. She smiles again, all dimples and teeth and perfect pink lips. (Lena’s heart may or may not skip a beat, or two). “Thank you.” Then, after a beat. “I’m Kara.”_

_“Nice to meet you, Kara,” she responds, offering up a small smile of her own. “I’m Lena.”_

_That was their first rendezvous on the beach, but it certainly isn't_ _their last. No, that comes months later. Seven blissful months of beach trips and secret, stolen kisses later._

_In the end, the last time Lena and Kara are on that beach together is unremarkable. It’s a sunny day, which means the people are out in their masses. The two of them don’t even have so much as a parasol to provide a little privacy. Everything they do is very much out in the open; exposed. So, they’re sat far apart enough as to not seem overly friendly — roughly three feet — and Lena makes sure not to let their touches linger if they need to hand each other anything. Kara’s stretched out on her back, basking in the sun and draped modestly in Lena’s shawl. And Lena, as always, is sat curled up with a book. Occasionally, she’ll read a particularly poignant passage aloud for Kara to appreciate, but otherwise, they sit in silence. Happy just to be in each other’s company._

_The last time they are on that beach together is much like any other time. It sticks in Lena’s mind, simply because it marks the end of their clandestine summer tryst. The last time she drives Kara home from the beach, however, sticks in her mind for an entirely different reason._

_It’s a short distance, from the beach to Kara’s door. Normally, they walk, because it means more time together. More time to talk and playfully jostle shoulders as they go, and more time to just_ be _. For these reasons, they always prefer to walk. But today, their last day — though they won’t know that until tomorrow — Kara has somewhere to be. It’s something banal; a doctors appointment, or her mother’s asked her to do the shopping. Lena knows she’d much rather be with her, almost offered to go with her, but it’s good for them to be seen apart. To keep up appearances._

_So, to eke out every possible second on the beach, they decide to drive._

_Kara’s hair billows in the wind as they fly down the roads. Her musical laugh urges Lena on to push the car faster. With a cheer, Kara lets her head loll back and throws her arms up in the air. “Oh, Lena,” she shouts over the roar of the engine, “I feel so free. I- I’m_ flying _!” She laughs again, and Lena can’t help but do the same._

_When they come to a stop in the street outside Kara’s house, Lena looks across at her wild grin and windswept hair, and an overwhelming warmth of affection blooms in her chest. Then, there’s a moment where Kara tilts her head one side and gazes at her like she feels exactly the same. She leans in close, across the gearstick and clutch, tucking her chin into her neck like she’s suddenly embarrassed. “You know,” Kara whispers, breathless, “I might just be in love with you.”_

_For a second, Lena’s not sure she’s heard her right. But, if Kara hasn’t just said what Lena thinks she’s said, why is her heart bursting out of her chest? Why is every bone in her body screaming out to_ kiss her _? “I should damn well hope so,” she says with a shaky laugh, throat pulsing with every crashing thud her heart gives. “Because I’m certainly in love with you.” Then, she kisses Kara deeply, and with reckless abandon._

_And when her mother comes for her the next morning, Lena can’t bring herself to wish she hadn’t._

 

When Alex finally returns home, enough time has passed for Lena to watch the sun set in a blaze of glory and each individual star blink to life in the sky. She’s watched it all from the square of garden that borders Alex’s, waiting. Lena hates to pounce on her the instant she gets home, to be seen loitering like someone crazed with obsession. It’s just, well, every time she had thought about going inside and leaving it all 'til morning, her legs had turned to lead beneath her and her blood set to boiling in her veins. So, she waited. 

Now though, at half past nine, some four hours later, her waiting is over. Alex is home. 

“How was your dinner?” Lena asks, sidling over with shoulders lax and a forced casualness she hopes seems genuine. 

Alex pauses with her arm outstretched, keys halfway toward the door. “Good,” she mumbles to her shoes. Then, she turns to face Lena. “Yes, it was good. Enlightening. . .” 

A silence hangs heavy between them. Lena longs for that time at the party, just a few short weeks ago, when Alex had jested that she knew so little of her. But there can be no going back now. She has to see it through; whether into victory or defeat, she can't yet know. 

It all depends on what Alex says next. Lena can see her carefully considering her options, chewing pensively at her lower lip. Then, slowly opening her mouth as if she’s still thinking it through as the words form on her tongue, Alex delivers her verdict. “I’ll do it. I’ll invite Kara to tea.” 

Lena releases a shaky breath, one she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Oh, Alex—“

”But, Lena,” Alex cuts her off, an imperative seriousness colouring her voice, “I need to know something first.”

”Anything.” 

Alex pauses, clutching her keys in both hands and looking up at Lena through a fringe of dark hair. “Is— was—“ another pause, this time to gather her thoughts. Flustered, she continues, “That thing you did, the thing your mother disagreed with — what she punished you for. Was. . . was it being with Kara? ” 

Suddenly confronted with the ugly truth, Lena gulps. Her hands tremble as she wrings them out in front of her. “Yes.”  

“Okay,” Alex says softly, nodding her head. “Well, I’m going to invite Kara over for tea. For you, but also for her. It’ll — it’ll be good for her, I think. To see you.”

With the anxiety she was running on — the worry and the fear — chased away by Alex’s kindness, Lena is suddenly exhausted. A bone-deep weariness forces her shoulders to sag, and for a moment it feels like her knees might buckle out from underneath her. A whisper is the most she can manage. “Thank you.”

“When would you like me to arrange it?”

“Oh,” the depth of Alex’s consideration spreads a pang of guilt through Lena’s chest, “please, just whenever works best for you. I’ve put you to enough trouble already.” 

A wave of Alex’s hand, keys jingling, seems to say _oh, it’s no real trouble_. “I could make it as early as tomorrow, if you’d like.” 

Lena’s breath hitches in her throat. A small smile teases the edges of her mouth upwards, “Tomorrow would be wonderful.” 

A similar smile shapes itself on Alex’s lips, and she inclines her head downwards in gentle, muted farewell. 

“Tomorrow, then.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there’s some actual supercorp interaction coming next chapter, i promise! 
> 
> (a lot of it actually).


	4. a star to the moon

Lena looks good. The rich purple of her jacket, waistcoat and trousers compliments her eyes nicely, and the three-piece suit is tailored specifically to hug her body in all the right places. A dart in the bust pulls her waistcoat in to display the ample swell of her chest, and two more in the back shape it around her waist. Her trousers hang crisply from her hips, contoured to the willowy length of her legs. And her jacket fits perfectly in every place. Buttoned underneath it all, Lena wears a freshly pressed black shirt. The first few buttons are left open, hinting at angular collarbones and stretch of flawless pale skin as her sternum chases beneath the fabric. Lena looks  _great_. 

She fidgets, unsatisfied, with her cuffs. The two suits she'd tried on before this one had also looked great. Today, that isn't going to be enough. _Great_ isn't going to be good enough. No, today, Lena needs to look incredible. Alluring and breathtaking and  _incredible_. 

She shifts her shoulders fitfully, like there's something there she can't quite shake. Glaring at the mirror, Lena searches for anything about her outfit that is less than incredible — a loose thread at the hem, an unseemly crease along the leg of her trousers, a blemish in the crest of her cufflinks or a misshapen collar — but she finds nothing. Behind her, a clock ushers in a new hour with an almighty tolling. She's out of time. It's three o'clock, and there's still so much left to do. Incredible or not, this suit will have to do. 

With a sigh, Lena slicks back her hair one last time and leaves the room. 

At least the house looks incredible, she thinks forlornly on her way down the stairs. Since the early hours of the morning, when Lena's anxieties had roused her from an unsettled sleep, preparations have been underway. The floors have been thoroughly cleaned — swept and polished until they shine — and every surface has received similar treatment; cushions have been plumped until plush, and furnishings have been arranged and rearranged until perfectly placed. Lena has insisted on all this and more, on the off chance that afternoon tea with Alex should turn into an impromptu tour of her home. Why that would happen, Lena doesn't know. But, it might. And, if there's even the slightest chance that Kara might be here later, she needs to be prepared. 

As she makes her way across to Alex’s she hears the buzz of a motor as a squat man runs an electric lawnmower back and forth across the grass, another one of Lena’s interventions. Intermittently, a grating whoosh punctuates the more constant sounds — a pair of rusting loppers trimming unruly hedges. Further down the drive, three or four young boys flit about on Lena’s private beach, picking up littered remnants from partygoers of the past for two dollars apiece. When she reaches Alex’s (freshly swept) doorstep, Lena is pleased to see the wicker basket of hyacinths she sent over hanging low from an awning. She hopes Kara will like them; they used to be her favourite. 

Suddenly, looking up at the bulbous bouquet, Lena feels very uneasy. What if Kara _doesn’t_ like them? It’s true that they used to be her favourite, but tastes change. Over five years, tastes can change an awful lot. If Kara’s favourite flower is different now — maybe roses or violets or lilies — then Lena has one to blame for not knowing but herself. She never reached out; never phoned or wrote. For five years, Lena’s let herself become a total stranger to Kara. What if Kara has completely moved on? She is married, now, and Lena could hardly expect her to wait forever. What if she’s forgotten all about her? What if, even worse, Kara’s spent the last five years simmering in hatred for Lena after she left without so much as a by your leave? What if, when she sees her this afternoon, Kara is so furious that Lena would _dare_ show her face again after all this time that she refuses to see her and demands she leaves forever? 

_What if she doesn’t like the damn hyacinths?_

Lena, in a state of increasing panic, is just turning to make a hasty retreat when Alex opens the door. 

“Lena!” She exclaims in surprise. Checking her watch with furrowed brows, she nods. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour. Kara won’t be here until at least four.” 

“Ah, yes. About that. . .” Lena faces Alex, flushed and flustered. “Alex, this has all been a terrible mistake. I should never have asked this of you. So, uh,” she glances over her shoulder, impatient to be back behind the safe confines of her own four walls. “I’m afraid I shan’t be joining you for tea this afternoon. Please, don’t mention any of this to Kara when you see her.” 

With that, Lena turns to leave. 

“Now, see here, just you wait,” Alex says, bewildered, as she clamps a hand around Lena’s bicep. She promptly drags her inside, closes the door firmly behind them, and fixes Lena with a stern look, hands on hips. “What’s all this about?” 

“I can’t do this, Alex,” Lena explains desperately. “When I left Midvale — when my mother made me leave — I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I couldn’t tell Kara I was leaving, much less explain why. And I never got the chance to. For all she knows, I just upped and _left_ her, Alex. She- she probably hates me. I should never have tried to get involved again. I—“

Alex puts a stop to Lena’s frenzied rambling with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Lena, stop. You’re just nervous. Kara doesn’t hate you. You and I both know, that girl doesn’t have a resentful bone in her body.” Lena chuckles and tries to quell the rolling of her stomach. Alex is right, she knows she is. “It’ll all be fine, you’ll see. Now, why don’t you take a seat, and—“ 

A soft rapping at the door cuts Alex off. “Oh,” she raises a bemused eyebrow, “she’s early.” 

And, just as Lena’s heart is settling into a normal, safe rhythm, Alex’s remark sets it off to hammering again. 

There’s no time for her to respond, though — no time to run or hide or yell at Alex to _wait!_ — because before Lena can think of any of that, the door opens.

For a moment, when they make eye contact for the first time in half a decade, time stands still. It’s the most Lena can do to keep breathing as she stands gaping at Kara. Catatonic. She is just as beautiful as Lena remembers. More so. And it’s all such a terrible shock to the system, to see Kara now, so close, when for so long it seemed she might never be again. Lena knows she must look stupid, just standing and staring in silence. But, well, she has five years of missed time to take in. It’ll take her a minute. 

And Kara’s doing just the same — standing and staring in silence. Until, she lets her lower jaw sag into a disbelieving, but not displeased, laugh. Then, her hand flies to her mouth and a film of tears glosses over her eyes. “Hi, Lena,” she says softly after a few seconds. 

Lena smiles. A hot pricking in her throat and nose and behind her eyes warns her of the tears before they come. One beads on her eyelashes as she finally speaks, small and soft. “Hi.” 

 

Tea at Alex’s is a short-lived affair. Both Lena and Kara are far too nervous to sit still for long, and after the third minor spillage caused by trembling hands or erratic bouncing knees, they decide a visit over to Lena’s would better suit the circumstances. Though the two of them were insistent that Alex accompany them, they walk out in front of her, side by side with shoulders brushing and heads inclined tentatively towards each other like they’re the only people on earth. As far as Lena’s concerned, they might as well be. Through the nerves, she’s overwhelmed with joy. With every tingling touch, she’s convinced more and more that she was wrong.

Every time their hips bump as their steps fall familiarly in time convinces her that Kara hasn’t forgotten her. Every time she leans her head close enough for her hair to tickle Lena’s neck convinces her that Kara doesn’t hate her. And every time their fingers brush as their arms swing with the momentum of their stride convinces her that Kara hasn’t moved on. Not at all. 

It fills Lena with hope; it bubbles up to the surface in breathy laughs and lingering looks across at Kara, her eyes alight with it. The hope makes her bolder, too. She lets it infiltrate her voice with a teasing lilt when she mentions Kara's past propensity for awkwardness, and she lets it guide her hand to Kara's lower back when she ushers her through the door. "After you."

"Always such a gentleman," Kara teases. The corner of her eyes wrinkle into a squint as she glances across at Lena, beaming.

"Only for you," Lena assures with a smile as she closes the door behind them. It all feels so easy, this back and forth. Every remark between them is said without any thought, just follows the natural flow of conversation. In fact, it feels so simple — normal and familiar — that it takes Lena a moment to realise that they're flirting. That's what this is: flirting. The gentle ribbing and witty sarcasm, the longing gazes and lingering touches. This is exactly how it was when they first met, on a dower day at the beach, all those years ago. 

Lena smiles to herself. She's so unbelievably grateful for Kara and the second chance she's getting with her. When she steps in to stand by her side, Lena presses her shoulder against Kara's, just to be sure that she's real. That this isn't all a dream; it's almost like she's pinching herself. Just to be sure.

"Your house is. . .  lovely," Kara murmurs uncertainly.

"Hmm," Lena waves a dismissive hand at the high white ceilings and bland blue walls, "None of it is mine. Lillian decorated it all. Actually, I rather hate it."

"Thank goodness!" Kara exclaims, giving Lena's arm a squeeze as she laughs, "It's so boring, but I didn't feel I could say. And none of it looks very _you_."  

"Oh?" Lena raises her eyebrows at Kara in query, "And what would look _me_ , do you think?" She asks as she sets off down a hallway with Kara moving instinctively to follow beside her. Not that either of them are paying her any heed, anyway, but behind them, Alex hangs back to allow them more privacy. 

"Well," Kara drawls, slipping her arm through Lena's without thinking, "For a start, you wouldn't have painted the walls so dark. It makes everything seem so much smaller; you never did like tight spaces. A lighter colour — a beige or soft yellow — would open everything up." 

For a moment, Lena — taken aback by how well Kara still knows her, and how much she's remembered — can only nod dumbly. Then, all she can manage is a murmur. "You're right." 

As it turns out, that's all the confirmation Kara needs. Without missing a beat, she eagerly launches into a specifically  _Lena_ retelling of the house's interior design. Hallway by hallway, room by room as they walk arm-in-arm. "The doors are another thing. Why are they all so heavy? Why is there one for every room? You would never have closed everything off like this. You would have taken a few of the doors down, maybe even knocked out a few walls!" Kara considers excitedly. "That way everything would flow much better." 

"Yes, it would," Lena muses. Suddenly, she starts to see her house in a completely new way. With Kara's illustrative suggestions, she starts to see her house as somewhere she could feel at home. 

"And these floorboards," Kara bemoans as she peers through an open door. "They're actually quite pleasant, especially polished like this. . . but they're everywhere! I can understand having them in the hallways — easier to maintain — but in a sitting room? No, they just make everything feel cold. You would probably prefer carpets in there, something to match the furniture."

It continues like this all around the house. In the dining room, Kara thinks the table is too long for Lena’s tastes. Apparently, all alongside the mahogany surface, the chairs are spaced apart too widely. You can’t really enjoy a meal if you’re isolated from everyone around you. Then, in the library, she thinks everything is arranged wrong. Books nearer the bottom — ones Lena could actually reach — are dull tomes that she’d never want to read, and Lena would need a ladder to get to anything she’d actually enjoy. In fact, she might as well go through and get rid of half of the collection. Moving upstairs, Kara manages to find fault with almost everything. The rooms are too bare; the bedsheets are too impersonal; the windows too small, and the curtains that dress them too ostentatious. Everywhere they go, it seems, nothing is quite _Lena_ enough. 

And it fills her heart with joy, to have everything she owns so ruthlessly criticised, knowing it comes from a place of love. And that's what this is, still. Of that Lena is sure. This, with its spluttering heart and fluttering stomach and schoolgirl blushing. This, with its ecstasy and bliss. This is love. 

"Kara," Lena says, splitting the silence they've been occupying since Kara finished her scathing assessment of the house. "we've seen plenty already that you disapprove of. I think I'd like to show you something you'll actually like, now. If that's okay." 

Kara grips her forearm, "Oh, Lena. That would be lovely." 

So, she leads them out of the house and onto the grounds. In the time it's been since they came over from Alex's, the sun has set the sky on fire, and dusk has ushered in a cool breeze. Kara, enchanted by the bursts of life and colour in Lena's gardens, doesn't seem to notice when she begins to shiver. Lena does, though. To accommodate the withering summer heat during the day, when the sun is beating down with full force, Kara had worn only a shift-like dress over to Alex's for tea. No doubt she had expected to be home long before shifting temperatures demand anything heavier. But, as it stands, she's still a while away from home, and anything heavier. And she's cold. 

Lena shrugs her jacket from her shoulders. "Here," she says, draping it over Kara, "Take this." She feels fresh goosebumps prickle at Kara's skin where her hand skims it, though for reasons entirely unrelated to the weather. 

"Thank you," Kara whispers, pulling the lapels tight together over her chest. 

They continue walking in silence. Moments later, when Lena's hand brushes past Kara's, hanging just below the hem of her jacket, lithe fingers dart out to trap it there. Surprised, Lena looks over at Kara, wide-eyed. Kara's face is set with determination; she coils her fingers around Lena's and clamps them there. Lena's heart soars, and she gives her hand a squeeze as if to say  _I want this, too._ Because of course she does. It's _Kara_. There's no part of being with Kara that she doesn't want. 

Another couple of paces across the expanse of Lena's gardens, and Kara asks, "Where exactly are you taking me?" 

Lena smiles. "You'll see." Telling Kara now would serve no real purpose; they're nearly there, and she'll know it when she sees it. 

Lena guides Kara through another alcove of trees, around another line of hedges, and. . . _"Oh" —_  they stop. 

Suddenly gleaming with unshed tears, Kara's eyes reflect the dying light of the sun as her lips creep up into a broad smile. "Oh," she repeats, stepping a tentative toe onto the sand.

"You have a beach." 

Nodding, Lena watches Kara reach down to remove her shoes, throwing them aside when she does, and working her toes into the sand. Then, she follows her gaze out to the water’s edge, where a slow tide swells against the shore. Wistfully, she agrees. 

“I have a beach.” 

Kara turns to her then, clutching the jacket around her shoulders. The look in her eyes is a sad one, wistful, and Lena doesn’t have to ask to know why. It’s sad because _they_ had a beach, once. The two of them, together. It was there that they had first met, there behind the dunes that they had first kissed, there upon the sands that they had first learned to love.  And it’s sad, because they haven’t been to that beach for a long time now.

”Lillian made me leave,” Lena blurts, desperate to ease some of Kara’s sadness. “I never wanted to leave you.” 

The sadness is still there, even when Kara smiles. “I know.” 

Sliding out of her own shoes, Lena strides across to meet her. She takes Kara’s hands in her own, grasping them tightly like they’re all that anchor her to the present. “How have you been, Kara?”  

As if it’s all of a sudden grown too much, tears begin to spill over Kara’s eyelashes. “I’ve missed you so much." 

Kara hangs her head as silent tears track down her cheeks, and Lena doesn’t know what to say. Instead, she hooks a finger under Kara’s chin and lifts it until their eyes meet. For a moment, she just looks at her. Lena gazes into the eyes of a love she thought lost, and hopes her eyes will convey all that her words cannot. Then, she moves her thumb to grip Kara’s chin. 

When they kiss, Lena tastes salted tears on Kara’s lips. But the sadness isn’t there. She feels it leave Kara with a final thrumming surge, as she steps closer to Lena. With it gone, the moment is theirs — to do as they please, to _feel_ as they please. 

When they kiss, it’s exactly as Lena remembers. Slow and soft and sensual. Kara moves her hands to cup Lena’s face, and the jacket sweeps onto the floor. Lena pulls Kara flush against her with a hand over her hip, and she barely feels the cold at all. They meld to each other perfectly; lips and hips and hands, everything knows just where to go. It’s exactly as Lena hoped it would be. Passionate and thrilling and _incredible_. 

When they kiss, Lena finally feels home. 

 

“Kiss me again,” Kara mumbles into Lena’s shoulder. 

It’s three weeks later, and they’re back on the beach. _Their_ beach. Lena's reclining on propped up elbows, legs stretched out over a scruffy blanket Kara's taken a liking to. Shading her sensitive skin from the sun is a wide-brimmed, flamboyant hat that Kara had presented her with last week as a joke, but has actually proved very useful. Kara lies perpendicular to her, holding up her torso with an arm anchored over her knee. Those three weeks have passed in a blur, though somehow Lena feels frozen in time. It seems like wishful thinking, but she almost feels she could spend the rest of her life here. On this beach, stealing moments like this with Kara. 

Obligingly, Lena pushes herself up to press her lips to Kara's. The brim of her hat lolls around both of their heads, but she's learned how not to let it get in the way. The corners of Lena's mouth fold freely into a smile. She lets it shape the kiss, and feels Kara do the same. 

Kara purrs happily when they break apart. Satisfied, she lets her head sink back into Lena's lap with a contented sigh. 

Idly, Lena's fingers comb through the silken strands of golden hair that cover her legs. The sun flares blindingly off the glass face of her watch with its movement on her wrist, catching her eye. She continues to gaze at it, watching as the reflective glare wanes. Then, when the glass is transparent once more, Lena is surprised to see the angle of the hands reading five fifteen. In what feels like minutes, hours have passed. 

"Kara," she says, lazily twisting a loose curl around her finger.

"Hmm?" Kara hums.

"Darling, it's getting late. And you've been here since before lunch. Won't you be expected home soon?" 

"Oh," Kara traces a slow, crooked pattern on Lena's leg. She seems completely unperturbed by the notion. "No. Mon-El probably hasn't even noticed I'm gone."

Taken aback, Lena lifts herself onto her palms and looks down at Kara inquiringly. "What do you tell him about where you go all day?" 

"Nothing, usually." 

"What? _How_?" Lena raises her eyebrow in shock, gaping slightly. "Kara, you're here, sometimes, twelve hours a day! How can he not notice you're gone that long?" 

"Well, it's easy, really," she drawls, slowly. "He gets distracted, playing golf with his asshole friends, or out to lunch with his mistress—"

Lena gasps, incredulous. "He has a  _mistress?_ " 

"—and I can slip out unseen." Then, in response to Lena's outburst, "Oh, yes." Her nonchalant, throwaway remarks make it seem normal, for a wife to talk about her husband's mistress so calmly. For a wife to _know_ about her husband's mistress, and be so calm. "He thinks I don't know about her, but he's really not very discreet. Always on the phone with her at dinner, or coming back from town smelling of her." As a distracted afterthought, Kara adds, "Her name's Imra." 

Dumbfounded, Lena wracks her mind for something to say — some comfort or condolence. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth is hanging limply open in bewilderment. "Kara. . ." She breathes, soft and sympathetic. 

"Well, I can hardly be upset about it," Kara says with a cynic's smile.

"Why not?" Lena asks tenderly, and with brows creased by confusion. 

"I'm here with you, aren't I?" 

 

The party Lena throws that weekend is her first in a while. Ever since that first afternoon with Kara, she hasn't had a need for them. After all, beneath all the glitz and glamour — the champagne fountains and rose-tinted lights — they were only ever really an excuse to not be alone. A tonic to ease her crippling loneliness. But with Kara around — her easy laughter and silly quips — Lena's found herself growing immune. 

Lately, being alone hasn’t bothered her nearly as much as it used to. Maybe it’s because she knows it’s not for long, that Kara will always come back before she has time to grow lonely. More likely, though, it’s because Lena’s really only alone when she’s not conscious of it, when she’s sleeping — sometimes, not even then. And, where before she would have to talk to dozens of people, making the rounds at each and every party, before the interactions would so much as put a dent in her sense of solitude — now, it’s enough to simply be near Kara. 

Lena doesn’t need the parties anymore.

That said, she does still enjoy them. It’s the best feeling in the world, to be around someone who truly knows you, but it can also feel wonderful to be around hundreds who don’t know you at all. It’s exhilarating. To be swept up in the grandiose, non-stop nature of it all — the constant movement on the dance floor, the dips and spins, twists and turns; the constant conversation, from deep discussion to giggling gossip; the constant excitement because there’s always something happening somewhere.  

Lena misses it. All that. And she wants to share it with Kara. 

So, tonight there will be a party. The biggest, best party Lena’s ever thrown. Nearly all of National City will be there, and, with any luck, so will Kara. 

 

“Oh, she’ll be here,” Alex confirms, scoffing into her scotch. She’s over at Lena’s house, as invited, for afternoon drinks before the party begins in an hour or two. “In fact, I’m surprised she isn’t here already.” 

“Why do you say it like that?” Lena asks, unsure whether or not to be offended by the deep vein of sarcasm. 

Alex sets her glass down with a smile, “I just think it’s ironic. You, sitting here, worrying that Kara won’t come. You asked her to, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, but—“ 

“Look at it this way,” Alex interjects, “If Kara asked you to be somewhere — say, her house, right now— exactly how long would it take you to get there?” 

Tilting her head to the side, Lena considers it for a moment. Then, she nods, as if conceding defeat. “I see your point.” 

“Yes, thank you!” Alex points one finger at Lena, exultingly, and careful to grip her glass with the others. “You and Kara; you’re both hopeless.” She shrugs, like it’s an unfortunate truth that can’t be helped. 

Lena purses her lips, pauses. . . “But, she’ll definitely come?” 

Alex huffs, despairingly and dramatic, “ _Good God_ , woman. Yes!” 

 

Alex ends up being right. Of course she does. Kara arrives mere moments after the gates open; Lena finds her wandering in with the rest of the eager early birds. Though, in all her infinite wisdom, Alex had failed to predict who walks in with her. In her defence, Lena didn’t expect it either. It’s really quite a shock, to see Kara come in on Mon-El’s arm. It shouldn’t be, though, Lena realises bitterly. After all, she is his wife. 

“Lena!” Kara exclaims when she sees her, releasing her grip on Mon-El in favour of wrapping her arms around Lena in a tight embrace. 

Over her shoulder, Lena smiles grimly at Mon-El. “I’m so glad you could make it,” she says as Kara returns to his side. Gritting her teeth, she addresses Mon-El with a curt nod. “Both of you.” 

The downwards cast of Kara’s eyes when Lena’s meet them next, almost like she’s ashamed, seems to say _I’m sorry_. Immediately, Lena is struck upon with guilt. Kara most likely had no say in the matter of her husband’s untimely attendance; she’s probably just as disquietened by it as Lena is. And her obvious distaste for him will only be serving to worsen that. It doesn’t matter why he’s here. All that matters is that he is, and that makes him a guest in Lena’s house. If it makes Kara more at ease, he shall be treated as such. 

As they move to the ballroom, Lena resolves to be civil. She just hopes she won’t have to be for long. Soon enough, she hopes, the rooms will fill up with people, and she and Kara will be able to slip away unnoticed. Just two more faces in the crowd. 

For now, though, crowds are sparse. Groups of people, in threes or fours, are dotted about, favouring corners and hugging the walls. More and more are trickling in through the main doors every minute, but they come in dribs and drabs. There won’t be any real traffic until the sun sets, and that won’t be for a while yet. 

So, for now, Lena’s stuck. 

“Uh, can I get you a drink?” She asks, grasping at straws during a painful lull in conversation. 

“Ah, yes,” Mon-El replies coarsely. “I’ll have a bourbon; finest you’ve got. But, oh, nothing for Kara. She doesn’t drink.” 

He’s wrong. Lena knows from sultry summer evenings spent sipping wine with her on the beach, that Kara _does_ drink. It’s from those some evenings that Lena knows that Kara detests the acrid aroma of sauvignon blanc, while she can never say no to a glass of rich, full-bodied merlot. Something she, evidently, never decided to share with Mon-El. 

“Yes,” she pronounces slowly, “Okay.” As she turns to leave, Lena shoots Kara a worried glance, but she’s intentionally looking the other way, and doesn’t notice. 

On her way back to the pair, a tumbler of the cheapest bourbon she could find in hand, Lena is thrilled to notice a throng of people starting to emerge. Very soon, the party will be in full swing. Very soon, she’ll be able to take Kara’s hand and lead her away. Very soon, they’ll both be able to have a much-needed drink. 

 _Not soon enough_. 

“There you go,” she hands Mon-El his glass. Then — as he takes it in silence without even sparing her a glance, and raises it to his lips — Lena snarls, disgusted. “You’re _welcome_.” 

“How is it you know Kara?” He inquires, suddenly, and with complete disregard for everything she’s just said. 

Bristling, Lena forms a retort on her tongue. Something scathing, resentful. Something to put Mon-El in his place. 

Luckily, Kara gets there before she can. Though, her soothing tones aren’t hardly what Lena would have gone for. “Don’t you remember, darling? I told you: Alex lives just next door, and Lena was there that afternoon I visited for tea. We’ve seen each other a couple of times since then, here and there.” 

Lena’s getting ready to choke out some meaningless agreement when someone jostles her shoulder walking past. She turns reflexively, and is nothing short of _overjoyed_ when she sees how thick the crowds have become. The people are everywhere. And they move constantly — weaving in and out, bobbing up and down, swaying side to side. It’s impossible to keep track of someone for long. It’s mayhem. 

It’s perfect. 

Lena sees her chance and takes it. “Kara,” she holds out her hand, a wild glint in her eye. “Would you care to dance?” 

Without looking to Mon-El for confirmation, Kara takes the proffered hand. Lena leads her out into the crowd, slowly at first. Then, when there’s distance enough between them for them to be out of Mon-El’s line of sight, Lena knits her fingers tightly with Kara’s. “Don’t let go,” and she whisks her away. 

Across the ballroom, it feels like they’re suspended in time. The movement slows, and the music slurs, all in time with the steady pound of Lena’s heart. Then, with a swelling crescendo, the illusion breaks. And it’s like that day in the car, speeding down tight lanes with hands thrown up to the skies, fast and free. They’re flying.

When they finally stop, in the gardens behind the privacy of a twisted old oak, Kara is breathless and laughing. Her hand is still tightly intertwined with Lena’s. She pulls it up to her lips, and presses a kiss to it between heavy, ragged breaths. “That was amazing,” she murmurs into the reverse of her palm. When she looks up, her pupils are blown so wide the blue of her eyes is almost black. Huskily, she whispers, “You’re amazing.” 

Suddenly, Lena darts her free hand out to cup the back of Kara’s neck. With one swift motion, she presses their bodies flush together and pulls Kara into a bruising kiss. A stumbling stagger forces her to step back, and she feels her shoulders slam into the tree. Lena uses their joined hands to brace herself, then teases roughly at Kara’s bottom lip with her teeth. A low groan builds in her throat. As it shudders through her, she grips Lena’s hip sharply with blunted nails. Every touch is electric. Desperate and hungry. Kara’s skin is alive with it, thrumming.

“ _Lena_ ,” she gasps, hips bucking. She’s surprised to have use of her mouth again so soon, but Lena’s moved to undoing Kara with hot, messy kisses tracked down her neck. Everywhere her lips touch, Kara can feel a smear of lipstick tacking to her skin. Marking her. As if to show the world that she is Lena’s — Lena’s, and no one else’s. She’s just winding down from the thrill that shoots into her veins, when Lena’s teeth graze a pulse point in the hollow of her throat. Kara moans. Toes curling in her shoes, neck arching, deep and guttural, she moans. 

She knots her fingers into the mussed shock of Lena’s hair. “Lena, oh God. _Christ_.” 

Suddenly, Lena pulls away. Eyes overcast with longing and parted lips slightly swollen, she frowns. “What are we doing?” She mumbles disjointedly.

”Don’t—“ Kara hisses, breathless, “Don’t stop.” Heart pulsing painfully in her throat, she tugs at her insistently, guiding Lena’s lips back to hers. 

“No, Kara,” shaking her head, Lena wrestles away from her grasp and stares at her, stunned. “Your neck. . .” her fingers trace the crest of her lip, and come away stained red. “ _Kara_.”  

“Don’t worry about it,” she insists, drawing Lena back in close to her side. “Don’t worry.” Leaning in slowly, Kara presses a chaste kiss to Lena’s lips. “I like it. I want the whole world to know I’m yours.” 

“But you’re not!” Lena cries, suddenly. Shakily, she takes a few steps back from Kara. A glimmer of unshed tears accounts for the crack in her voice. “Not tonight. Tonight you’re _his_.” 

After that, it doesn’t matter what Kara says — what she does or how hard she tries — she still can’t convince Lena she’s wrong. And she does try. She tells Lena she loves her, and she places soft kisses along her jaw, and she doesn’t leave her side for the rest of the night. But, when the time comes to leave, Kara finally realises that maybe Lena _isn’t_ wrong. Because, when the time comes to leave, Mon-El offers Kara his arm, and she has to take it. 

After all, she is his wife. 

 


	5. breathing dreams like air

After the party, Lena doesn't see Kara for days. Doesn't hear from her, either. There are no letters, and no phone calls — not even those thirty-second ones where Kara rings to ask how Lena's day is going, and did she leave her blue shawl on the beach yesterday? Even when she's over at Alex one night for dinner, her sister isn't mentioned. In fact, Lena can't help but feel an awkward gaping hole in their conversation, where they are both making considerable effort not to bring it up. Lena knows why she's avoiding it — to stay the pangs of shameful guilt that flare in her chest every time she thinks of Kara, and how hurt she'd looked after what Lena said at the party, _tonight you're his_  — but she can't think why Alex would be. 

It only dawns on her after she leaves, that maybe Alex _has_ seen Kara, and been specifically instructed not to mention it. 

For those few days, after the party, when she doesn't see or hear from Kara once, Lena is miserable. Miserable and _lonely_. For the first time in weeks, she's left with nothing to do with her days but wander the halls. And, somehow, it's worse than before. Before, her only real obstacle was that stretch in the west wing, where the paintings are hung. There was only one place in her house that could make her feel so utterly, despairingly alone. Now, though, there are hundreds. Everywhere she goes, there's something of Kara echoing around her. Deafening. It's in the walls _(_ _you wouldn't have painted the walls so dark),_ and it's in the doors _(t_ _he doors are another thing)_. Around every corner, and into every room, there's something reminding Lena of what they had here. What she's terrified they've lost. 

So, on the fourth day of such self-indulgent wallowing, Lena picks herself up and heads over to Kara's house with a bottle of vintage merlot for a peace offering. 

Thankfully, it's Kara who opens the door. As she approaches, Lena hears a faint "I'll get it!" And her head is thrown over her shoulder, like she's yelling it out to the house, not looking at the door at all. So, there are a few seconds after she opens it before Kara turns around to face Lena. When she does, her eyes go wide and her eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline. "Lena!" She squeaks, hurriedly stepping out through the door and pulling it firmly shut behind her. "Uh, umm, what are you doing here?" Her question is all intrigue, not accusatory like Lena first feared. And there's a sudden rush of ruddy colour to Kara's cheeks, but even in her surprise it's obvious she's pleased to see her. 

Lena lets the tension in her shoulders drop. "I'm sorry to show up unannounced. . . It's just — I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. For how I acted at the party. I don't know what came over me. I think, maybe, I was jealous. I know that's absurd, I do. It's just, well, seeing how he treated you — like he always knows what's best for you, like you can't speak for yourself, like he  _owns_ you — it made me sick. And he got under my skin. That's all; it won't happen again. And I meant to apologise sooner, but then I didn't see you for days, and—" 

"Lena, stop!" Kara exclaims, a breath of laughter dying on her lips.

It's then that Lena realises, with a flush of embarrassment, that she's been rambling. "I'm sorry," she concludes, concisely. 

Kara presses her lips into a tender smile. There's endearment in her eyes when she tilts her head to gaze softly at Lena. "Don't be. It's my fault as well. I should never have let Mon-El come," then, her shoulders tense and the harried look from before is back, "I'm sorry, too. I should have called — I meant to — or come to see you. But I couldn't get away. Ever since we ran off at the party, Mon-El's been irritatingly attentive. Any time I try to slip out, he asks me where I'm going."

Lena draws a sharp breath in through gritted teeth, "Damn. I'm sorry Kara; I should have been more discreet." 

"No," Kara reaches out to grip her hand, "It's alright. We'll just have to make it work." Conviction hardens in her speech and in her eyes. "We will. We'll make it work." Lena can tell by the way Kara's fingers press urgently into her palm, that she means it. 

"How?" 

Kara furrows her brow. "Come by tomorrow," she dictates, uncertain. Then, after a moment's consideration, she nods. "Yes. Come by tomorrow. Alex and Maggie will be here for lunch; it wouldn't be so strange if you were to show up, too. Mon-El hardly pays attention at things like that, so it might as well be just the four of us." If there's even a hint of scepticism in Lena's face, or in the way she's holding herself, Kara picks up on it. "Just come," she pleads, "Please. I've missed you."

At that, Lena gives in. "Okay," she concedes. "Yes, I'll be there." 

"Thank you," Kara breathes a sigh of relief. Fumbling, she reaches behind her for the door handle, already retreating back inside. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Yes, you will." 

"And, Lena," she stops mid-stride and turns on her heel to look back at Kara. Only her head and shoulders are in view as she places her hand along the inside edge of the half-closed door, sinking against it. A subdued smile tracks, weary, across her face, "I love you." 

Lena frowns, concerned suddenly that Kara doesn't know she feels the same. When she responds, it’s with a soft insistence. "I love you, too, Kara." 

 

On her way home, Lena stops by Alex's to ask if she wants to drive over together to lunch tomorrow, and the next day the two of them set off in her sleek sportscar. They make most of the twenty minute trip in silence. Occasionally, they'll exchange trivial remarks. Passing comments about the weather:

"A very fine day today; I hadn't thought it was going to be so hot."

"Hmm, I wish I hadn't worn such a heavy jacket." 

Or, guarded gossip:

"Did you hear about the Morgan Edge scandal?"

"Oh, yes. Always knew he was a scheming bastard." 

At one point, Lena even ventures into suggestive teasing:

" _So_ , Kara tells me Maggie's coming to lunch. . ." 

"Of course she did." 

Mostly, though, they're silent. They've both learnt things about each other since that uncomfortable drive down to National City, things that foster a sense of comradery. They know — and trust — each other now. They're friends. Each comfortable enough in the company of the other to sit in companionable silence. 

And it is only twenty minutes. 

When they arrive, Lena swings the car in next to a fleet just like it and grinds it to a halt, all with one swift and sweeping motion. By then, the sun is hanging directly overhead, and the sweltering heat is almost unbearable. After a moment, just sitting and frowning in the stationary car, Lena concludes that the temperature is great enough to pose considerable threat to her exposed leather interior. Then, she throws her arm over the back of her seat and rotates her torso about ninety degrees in order to look back as she reverses expertly back down half the drive. Only satisfied when they're parked inconveniently on a grass verge beneath the shade of a great hulking tree, she finally shuts off the engine. 

"Sorry about that," Lena says as she and Alex walk back up to the house.

"Yes, well," Alex quips as they walk over an earthy mound they've already passed in the car twice today, "We couldn't have your seats cracking, could we?" 

"Hmm," Lena muses in agreement. She's distracted, and Alex's sarcasm is completely lost on her. As they near the house, they both quicken their step, eager to get inside and out of the heat. "Well, we're here now," Lena announces as they mount the doorstep. 

Kara comes to the door just seconds after their knocking sounds; when she sees who it is, her eyes light up, and she beams. "I'm so glad you could make it." 

 

When Kara said that Mon-El _hardly pays attention_ at things like this, that it would feel like _just the four of them_ , she was wrong. Because Mon-El is definitely paying attention, and it definitely doesn’t feel like a light lunch between four friends. From the moment Alex and Lena enter the room, tensions are running high. Very little is said, past their first greetings and sporadic tense snippets, and across the room looks of various substance are exchanged. From Mon-El,  there's a hard suspicious glare, directed unabashedly at Lena. In response, she sets her jaw and fixes him with a cool, unaffected stare. Beside her, Kara's gaze flits fitfully between the two of them, and she shifts uncomfortably. Then, off to the side, Alex and Maggie eye each other around matching frowns, wary of what might come. 

The hostility in the room is palpable. And the heat is only making it worse. 

"Would anyone like a drink?" Kara asks hopefully, desperate to get out of that room. If the antagonistic eye-contact between Lena and Mon-El doesn't break soon, she might be forced to physically remove one of them. Maybe, if someone would only respond to her damn question, she could take Lena with her to get drinks. Then she could appeal to her better nature. She could persuade her to be the bigger person, to at least try with Mon-El. After all, they're supposed to be making it work.

In the seconds it's been since she spoke, Kara's been waiting with bated breath. The silence is so hollow, it's like they're suspended in a vacuum. Nothing goes in, nothing comes out. There's just nothing. Then, finally, someone speaks. 

"No," Mon-El says suddenly, curtly. The disdain he'd been aiming at Lena is still in his eyes when he turns to Kara. It makes her heart sink in her chest. He shakes his head. "No, we can't have drinks. We haven't any ice. Can't have drinks without ice on a day like this." 

His tone is clipped and final, like he's decided there's nothing more to be said on the matter. But in it, Kara also finds a suggestion. Suggestion, and a means of escape. 

"Let's all go to National City!" 

"Now," Mon-El starts imperiously, "Why ever would we do that?" 

Kara frowns. Instinctively, she shifts her weight over to the other foot so she's closer to Lena. "They'll have ice," she defends. "We could go to a nice hotel and book a room for the afternoon. Then, you could have ice with your drink." 

Before he can shoot her down again, Maggie steps forward, her hand resting on Alex's forearm. "I think that sounds like a very fine idea. At the very least, a change of scenery will make us all feel a little less stale." 

Then, offering Kara a comforting glance, Alex steps in, too. "Yes, I should like that very much." 

"It's decided then," Lena declares astutely to the room. Much to Mon-El's chagrin, she's taken control of the situation. Then, she flashes a fleetingly soft smile for Kara and nods. "We shall go to National City."

Immediately, before Mon-El has a chance to object, Lena and Kara break off together. As they peel away down the drive, Lena almost feels bad for leaving Alex and Maggie alone with Mon-El. But, then, Kara places a warm hand over hers on the gearshift, and she forgets all about it. 

"I'm so glad you came," Kara sighs blissfully.

The city looms, sprawling, out before them. Lena lets the car roll towards it at an even pace, much slower than it's capable of. But, the faster they get there, the sooner they have to get out of the car. And Lena really doesn't want Kara to move her hand. "I said I would, didn't I?" 

"Yes," Kara admits, "But I know how you get when things make you nervous. You get spooked." 

"What?" she exclaims, incredulous. "I do not!" 

Slinging her arm over the back of Lena's seat, Kara laughs, "You also get defensive." Then, she leans so close towards her that her lips brush the sharp curve of Lena's jaw. In a low, sultry cadence, she whispers, "I don't make you nervous, do I, Lena?"

Smirking, Lena tilts her head to steal the taunt from Kara's lips with a kiss. "Not at all, darling," she responds before turning back to the road. Then, she frowns for a moment, out at the rapidly approaching city skyline. "I wasn't nervous about lunch, either."  

"Hmm," Kara inclines her head down into a solemn nod, feigning agreement, "Of course you weren't."

 

They meet the others in a wonderfully air-conditioned hotel lobby. Mon-El stands glowering by a winding staircase, arms crossed petulantly over his chest. Maggie is slouched with effortless confidence back against the railing. Beside her, Alex has her hands buried in her pockets, brows creased with annoyance. Even out of the heat, the three of them don’t seem any less put out. 

Lena and Kara walk in glowing. There’s easy laughter on their lips; matching smiles, too. And they’re stood impossibly close. Lena’s every curve fits to Kara’s exactly — waists and hips and even shoulders, all perfectly matched. Their steps fall in time as they approach the others by the stairs. 

“Sorry to have made you wait,” Kara tells them, though she’s still gazing, lovesick, at Lena when she does. 

While her little unwitting display of affection has Alex chuckling under her breath, and sharing a knowing look with Maggie, it unsurprisingly doesn’t have the same effect on Mon-El. 

He bristles. “Yes, well,” he snaps, “You’re here now. Shall we go?” And he sets off brusquely up the stairs. 

“O _kay_ ,” Alex drawls, drawing her hands neatly out from her pockets and using one to gesture up the stairs after Mon-El, “I suppose we should go.” 

“Are you sure?” Maggie asks, even as she mounts the first step, “we wouldn’t want him thinking we actually _listen_ to what he says.” 

Joining her on the stairs, Alex chuckles. And if Lena and Kara had been able to draw their eyes off each other for even a second, they would have noticed just how much of the two of them is reflected in Alex and Maggie. The lingering looks, the soft smiles, the tender touches. It’s all there. But, they’re really too swept up in their own love story to notice anybody else’s. 

“I think, maybe, that it might be nice for you to stay at Alex’s tonight,” Lena murmurs. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, corners curled suggestively in smile, when she turns to Kara. “I could drive you back there after we’re done here, if you’d like.” 

“Hmm,” Kara muses, considerate, “That could be nice,” she agrees, “but, I thought I heard Alex say she might ask Maggie over for dinner. I wouldn’t want to intrude; after all, three’s a crowd.” 

“What? Kara, no,” Lena protests, affronted. “Darling,” she says, gently then, and quieter, “I didn’t mean you should _actually_ stay with Alex.”

“What did you mean, then?” 

Unbelievably, she still doesn’t seem to understand. It’s almost endearing, really. The innocent furrowing of her brows and that curious quirk in her voice. It makes Lena’s heart swell inside her chest, at the same time it has her heaving a great, exasperated sigh. “I meant that I would like you to stay the night with me,” she explains. Then, suddenly hearing her own words echo back, and the tone with which they’re spoken, Lena hurries to add, “that is, if you want to, of course.” 

" _Oh_ ," Kara realises finally, and with a long sighing syllable. Grinning, she discreetly presses her palm to Lena's, disguising the movement with the swishing of her skirts. "Oh," she repeats, dreamily this time, "I should like that very much." 

Struck with the sudden urge to sweep Kara up in a swooning kiss, Lena bites her lip instead, hard. "Alright then," she says softly. 

They stop then. If not for Alex and Maggie lingering outside, gazing at each other with their hands connected over the door handle, where they had obviously both reached out to open it for the other, Lena and Kara would have had no way of even knowing which room was theirs. 

"Ah, we're uh" — Maggie folds her hair back behind a pinked ear to hide the way she jerks her hand out from beneath Alex's upon their arrival — "we're in here." The door opens with the distinctive _click_ of shifting bolts and rolling hinges. Maggie ducks through, flustered. 

Clearing the embarrassment from her throat hoarsely, Alex waves a hand at the door. "Uh, after you." 

The room is sparsely decorated. There's a tall, glass-front cabinet pressed against the left wall. Opposite it, to the right, there's another door. It's firmly shut, but Lena indifferently observes that it must lead on to the continuation of the suite — a bedroom or bathroom. Other than that, the room's only furnishings are a pair of low-slung couches and a stout trestle table, set out all facing each other upon a lavish rug. Behind Mon-El, who stands nursing a glass to his chest, the window is thrown open to let in some air. Then, to prevent the sun's rays streaking in with any more heat, the silk curtains are drawn shut. Through them, a hint of heavy city smog creeps in cloying tendrils. 

Lena chooses a very fine scotch from the selection on the cabinet shelves. She offers Kara a glass — and enjoys the way Mon-El's eyes bug out of his head when his wife who  _doesn't drink_ accepts it readily — before pouring one for herself. The amber liquid spits back at her when she drops a square of ice in with it. Then, Lena grips her cooling glass in one hand and slings the other over the back of the couch as she slips in next to Kara. For once, there's nothing discreet about it. Blatant, brazen; Lena rests her arm out across the back of the seat, and against Kara's shoulders. Languid, her fingers trace goosebumps up and down Kara's exposed arm. Serene, Kara leans back into her embrace. 

For a short while, then, it seems that Kara might have been right, after all. Mon-El, fuming in the corner, hardly pays attention as just the four of them — Lena and Kara and Maggie and Alex — talk and laugh, freely as among friends. But, with every time Lena makes his wife laugh at a joke he doesn’t understand, a vein swells in his head from hairline to brow, bulging blue. And, with every time Kara nestles closer into her side, his fingers pinch white around his glass. Finally, that searing rage builds to a climax. Mon-El huffs out a short, fierce sigh. 

Alex, who had been regaling them with embarrassing stories of Kara from their childhood in Midvale, stammers to silence as the four of them turn. Mon-El steps forwards to speak, very much paying attention. 

“So,” he drawls, “ _Lena Luthor_.” Lena stiffens. On his barbed tongue, her name sounds like an accusation, and she wants it gone from his lips. “What business do you have down here, anyway? As far as I’m aware your kind are mostly up in Metropolis.” 

At her side, Lena feels Kara shift, sitting tall up into a defensive stance. It almost makes her smile, to know that Kara’s so ready to protect her. And there’s a fleeting moment when Lena thinks she might lean over to press a kiss to the angle of her jaw, and whisper “ _you’re my hero”_ , delicately so that the loose threads of hair coiled by Kara's ear shiver. Just so she can be sure that Kara knows. _You’re my hero_. 

But, she can’t. So, she placates her with a steady hand on her shoulder and faces Mon-El with her lips grimly set. “I used to live with my mother in Metropolis, it’s true. But I’m doing my best to leave that chapter of my life behind me.” 

"Is that so?" Mon-El asks, goading Lena with his lips curled unpleasantly into a sneer. He seems far too pleased with himself, Lena thinks, for someone who's wife is sat in the arms of another woman. 

"Yes," she repeats through gritted teeth. 

"It's just that, well, I have a friend," that sneer turns to a sickly sweet smiling, like he's claiming some sort of victory — with Kara as his prize. Suddenly, Lena finds it very hard to believe that Mon-El  _has a friend_. "And he tells me that your brother Lex is hoping to expand his empire. Apparently, his interests are particularly invested in National City. There was an awful lot of alcohol at your party last week, Miss Luthor. It couldn't possibly be that you're down here to profit from illegal goods, could it? Bootlegging is a serious crime, you know." 

Lena snorts. It's all a ridiculous lie. She's heard worse, whispered like it's illicit, at her parties. Mon-El's words have no effect on her past mild irritation —  _why must the Luthor name mean only crime and cruelty?_ She knows, though, and Kara knows, that there's no truth in what he says. Lena hasn't spoken to Lex in months; it's not like he would trust her with any aspect of his 'business' anyway. And Lena really is trying to leave that chapter of her life behind. 

"Yes, but—" 

"Now, you see here!" Just as Lena starts to voice her defence, astute and unperturbed, Kara gets to her feet and points an indignant finger at Mon-El's chest. Her voice is brimming with anger; it pitches and trembles, and piques with the injustice. Behind her, Lena can see a flush of it creep up from her neckline, and her shoulders are squared staunchly. "You have no right, Mon-El! No right at all, to go accusing Lena of such things. I don't care what your friend says, you know full well he's wrong. And to ruin a perfectly lovely afternoon by bringing it up! Shame on you." 

Blanching, Mon-El steps forwards. Confusion creases his brow, and cords of muscle flinch in his neck as he clenches his jaw. "Why are you defending her?" He demands. "Kara, dear, why do you bother with her at all? She's a  _Luthor_. They're bad seed, the lot of them. Even if she isn't in league with her brother! She's a liar and a thief and a  _criminal—_ "

Behind her, Lena stands up. She places a hand at the small of Kara's back. Comforting. Warning. 

"Mon-El, stop." 

"She's bad for you, Kara. Being around her, it will only bring you trouble. Just, let me take you home. You'll never have to see her again." 

Lena feels Kara tense. Her heart is hammering in her chest. This was never how this afternoon was supposed to happen. They were supposed to make it work. 

"Stop it. You're wrong." 

"For God's sake! Can't you see? I know what's best for you. I'm your  _husband_. This woman, she's dangerous, Kara. You don't want to be anywhere near her. Don't you remember what happened to Clark? Your _cousin_. Don't you remember what Lex did to him?" 

Kara remembers. Of course she does. Lena remembers it, too. And her stomach is boiling, twisting knots at the very _thought_ that she would  _ever_ hurt Kara like that. 

"Lena's not like that." 

"But she  _is!_ Why can't you see that? She's wicked and corrupt and ruinous—"

"Mon-El. . ."

"Her entire family — Kara! They're all devils; sinful and wrong—"

"Mon-El." 

"For God's sake, she's a damn  _queer!_ "

" _Mon-El._ " 

Kara's tone demands silence. It's sharp and curt, and she can't believe he's said that. She's shocked and disgusted, but she slowly realizes that she shouldn't even be surprised. Not really. 

"How  _dare_ you?" She snarls, hands clenched in fists at her sides. 

Breathless, Mon-El allows for a moment of dreadful silence before he speaks. “Why?” His voice is low and strangely resigned. "Why are you still protecting her?" 

"Because I love her," Kara whispers.

That admission, that word —  _love —_  calls Lena's heart to a screeching halt. It's nothing she didn't already know; Kara tells her she loves her all the time. For her, it's almost an alternative for saying _hello_ , or  _goodbye,_ or  _thanks_. Sometimes, Lena thinks she might start using it as a place-holder between words. Instead of mumbling  _um — ah — uh_  — as she forms her next remark, Kara might just resort to telling Lena  _"I love you"._

But this is different. The sentiment is one Lena's heard countless time before. But it's different, now. Because it's not a secret, clandestine whispering against the lobe of her ear. It's not something they know is only meant for them. It's not "I love  _you"._ It's  _her_. It's a public display — it's an admission — it's the iron fetters clapped around their ankles breaking open with a hissing spark and falling to the floor — it's Kara pulling the wedding band from her finger. 

_"I love her."_

And Mon-El sighs, because he knows it's true. "Then you're a fool," he tells her slowly, “A goddamn fool if you think she’ll be able to give you half of what I can.”

"I'm sorry, Mon-El," is Kara's only response. She takes a single step forward. Her head tilts a little to the left, and there's an apologetic empathy in the blue of her eyes. With a steady hand, she draws Mon-El's clenched fist out from his side towards her chest. In silence, she unfurls his fingers. Everyone in the room knows what's coming. Alex and Maggie, dumbstruck on the couch, both inhale sharply. Even Lena finds it within herself to feel a twist of guilt. "I did love you, once," Kara promises softly, sadly. 

She presses the ring to his palm, closes his fingers tightly around it. And it's over. 

There's blood roaring in Lena's ears, so she barely hears when Kara mumbles "let's go" to her. A possessive thrill rushes, red, to her cheeks; she savours the way Kara's hand feels now as she takes Lena's in hers, without that ring, warmer. Adrenaline pulses, electric, through her veins, but when Kara starts to lead her to the door her legs still haven't quite stopped shaking and she stumbles. Every part of Lena's body thrums with the deadly exhilaration of it all. A fever of joyous shock. 

"She'll never make you happy, Kara!" Mon-El calls out behind them. Angry now, and desperate. "Not like I could." 

It's the ice in his voice, Lena thinks, that has Kara freezing with her hand on the door handle. And it's the menace, the concealed threat, that make her turn back to face him with her face set in a grimace. "Why don't you go ahead and leave me for your mistress, Mon-El?" Kara spits at him, and there really is finality in her voice when she speaks this time. "Because I'm leaving you for mine." 

With that, she spins on her heel, throws open the door, crosses the threshold in one curt stride, pulls Lena on through after her, and slams it behind them. 

As the sharp, heavy sound reverberates across the wall's wooden panels, they just stare at each other. Lena, mouth agape in awe, and Kara, stunned to silence by her own words. 

"So," Lena starts, struggling even with single syllables. For a beat, she pauses. Pursing her lips, she practices the words she wants to speak in her head and on her tongue. Then, as she finally says them aloud, she cringes. "I'm your mistress?" 

Kara gazes at her blankly, lashes fluttering closed over glazed eyes as she blinks. There's no sign that she's even heard Lena speak. It's like her body's here, standing in the hallway with chest heaving, but her mind's still there, back in that room where she left her husband. 

"Kara?" 

Suddenly, Kara looks at Lena with a look of such intense clarity, like someone's flicked a switch behind her eyes. "Not anymore," she mumbles, not quite sure yet. Then, her chin dips in towards her chest and she nods. The words shape her lips to a small smile. She grips Lena's hand ever tighter in her own. Epiphany glows in the lilt of her eye and the crease of her dimples. "I'm not his anymore," she repeats, grinning more widely by the second.

"No," Lena says, relief sounding with a breathy laugh, "You're not." 

With a second's pause, that vacant look from before returns to Kara's features. Pupils swelling, distraction swims in the thinned blue circumference of her iris’. Her mouth falls slack, out of its smile, lips slightly parted. With her free hand, she traces a thumb across the curve of her bottom lip. “No,” she echoes, meeting Lena’s eye with a piercing gaze, “I’m yours.” 

And she surges forwards to press Lena’s lips between her own. Splaying her fingers out in loose tendrils of hair, Kara curls her hand around the back of Lena’s neck. 

Pushing up off her heels, Lena teases Kara’s lips apart with her tongue. She can feel her heartbeat pounding all across her body through a network of veins; it’s exhilarating. This is only the second time she’s kissed Kara in public — away from their beaches, away from safety’s sands. Lena knows how badly this could go. Last time they did this, dared to show their love freely, it tore them apart. She knows the dangers. But, standing here in the hallway, kissing Kara up against the wall of one of National City’s most popular hotels, Lena doesn’t give a damn. 

Because her heart is singing and her skin is on fire and Kara’s hips are grinding into her palms. Because if there’s one thing she’s not going to think about right now, it’s how this could be the last time. No, she won’t think about that. 

 _Tonight_ , she thinks as Kara pulls away to catch her breath, grinning. _Tonight you’re mine._

 

Kara stays at Lena’s that night, and the next, and the next, and the next after that. Until an entire week has slipped through their fingers. They barely even notice, too caught up in the dreamy domesticity of breakfasts in the bed they share and afternoons on the beach. But, one morning, Kara throws open the wardrobe to pick out something to wear from Lena’s limited selection of dresses, only to find it empty. Evidently, she’s worn them all already, and the household staff have wasted no time in whisking them away to be cleaned. She tries a blouse from the opposite end of the wardrobe, but her proportions are different to Lena’s. The sleeves stop an inch or two above her wrist, and the buttons struggle with her broader shoulders, fabric stretching with unseemly creases across her chest. 

So, she’s forced to go downstairs in her underthings (much to Lena’s amusement). And later that day Kara sends Alex across to East Egg with a list of essentials to collect, and a letter of final farewell for Mon-El — which says, in no uncertain terms, that she’s leaving him, that she’s no longer his wife, and she hopes that he and Imra are very happy together. Alex returns an hour later, with a box brimming full of dresses and various trinkets, and a withered expression. 

“Never make me do that again,” she makes Kara promise before she hands over the box. 

“Oh, none of us will ever have to go back there,” she muses sagely, her nodding head the only part of her body visible around the door she’s hiding behind in her state of undress. “I promise.” 

 

Just one week later, and Kara’s life is back in boxes. She’s reclining in the passenger seat of Lena’s car, head thrown back to make the most of the seasonal sun, one arm over the driver’s seat and the other across the doorframe. Languid, she relaxes as Lena hauls the crates of their belongings out from the house to the car. Any twinge of guilt Kara might feel, as she does absolutely nothing to help, is quelled by the warm spread in her chest every time a cord of muscle flexes in Lena’s arm as she balances one box on each hip. At one point, she even removes her sunglasses to allow for better ogling. The only time Lena so much as feigns annoyance is when she bends over to lift a particularly large load, and Kara heckles her with a shrill whistle of approval. That time, when she passes Kara in the passenger seat to place the box in the back, Lena eyes her with weary reproach. Mostly, though, she passes Kara with a smile or a kiss. She doesn’t ask once for Kara to get off her ass and help, and soon enough all the boxes are in the back. 

They’re ready to leave. 

It’s an easy decision, really. To leave this place behind. To start anew, somewhere Kara insists they will make much more _Lena_. After all, there’s nothing here for them now. Not since Alex and Maggie have decided to leave, too. And the house, though luxurious, does little but remind Lena of all those years she and Kara were apart — of all those years wandering the halls. Even if they completely tore it down and built it again from the ground up, as Kara suggested one night after a glass of wine too many; they would still be able to see those lights, taunting them across the waters from East Egg. Mon-El’s lights. Creeping in around the curtains and reminded them that he’s not gone. Not really. And as long as they’re living here, in what is technically Lillian’s house, they’re not safe. 

So, they made a decision. An easy decision. 

They’re leaving. 

Lena slides into the driving seat and starts up the thrum of the engine. In absolute bliss, Kara’s hand threading through Lena’s hair absentmindedly as she hums along with the pitching crescendo drifting from the radio, they set off down the road, past Alex’s house and into an uncertain future. 

“You know,” Kara says suddenly, when they come to a standstill at the end of the drive. They haven’t any plans, not past simply getting the hell out, away from National City. So Lena doesn’t even know which way to turn now — left or right? 

“Yes, darling?” she responds as she withdraws her foot from the sensitive pedals. 

Kara looks at her lovingly then, softly, and like she’s the only thing in the world that’s ever going to be worth looking at. “Mon-El called me a fool for loving you. But, if that’s the case, I think that must be the best thing a girl can be. A beautiful little fool.” 

“Well,” a pinking blush rises from Lena’s neck up into her cheeks, “I don’t know about a fool.” A smile pulls the corners of her mouth upwards as she leans in to kiss Kara, “But you certainly are beautiful.”

Minutes later, when the moment has passed, Lena settles back into her seat and looks out on the road. _Left or right?_

”Where to?” She asks Kara, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like this — _left or right_ — isn’t the grand opening to the rest of their lives.

Kara lets her head loll back as she presses a pair of sunglasses to the bridge of her nose with a flourish, and she grins. 

“Somewhere with a beach.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, there you go. that's it. 
> 
> this was my first go at writing for almost a year now, and it took me a while to get into it but i think i’m pretty glad i did. please feel free to leave any comments or constructive criticism, i’d love to hear your thoughts! 
> 
> anyway, thank you so much for sticking with whatever the heck this is through to the end. i really hope you've enjoyed. :)


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